


just a face in the crowd

by chuckasaurus



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn, obvious train gang violene, okay but really only briefly enemies, possibly?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2019-12-07 05:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18230789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuckasaurus/pseuds/chuckasaurus
Summary: Daisy McCormack really did not want anything eventful to happen on the way to her new start in life. She's had enough eventful experiences for a lifetime.That is, until a mysterious, handsome cowboy forces his way into her future. More like she holds him by knife-point and shoves.Starting at the Horseshoe Overlook train robbery mission "Pouring Forth Oil", the gang gets stopped by a passenger who holds them up, rather than the other way around, but has a request they were not expecting.Title of fic and chapters come from Irish folk song "Irish Boy" by Patty Griffin (or her version of the song)





	1. so i never had dreams, and they never came true

I had _finally_ nodded off when a bump in the tracks jolts me awake.

For the first time in my twenty-hour trip so far, I finally managed to close my eyes, but the stupid train had to stupid _fucking_ bump me.

 _Relax, the trip was never meant to be stress-free_ , I told myself. _After all, this is my grand adventure, and I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I get there._

 _Or when I’m dead_.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and gaze out the window of the train car. A vast, rocky wilderness stretches to the horizon, dotted by the occasional pond, lake, or bunch of trees. A power line runs parallel to the tracks, and the wires seem to bounce to the movement of the train.

Honestly, if the bump had not woken me, the stifling _heat_ would have eventually. The sun is shining right at me, where my black dress absorbs all the heat from the rays. It doesn’t help that my hands are covered by gloves, and the _fucking corset_ that I’m wearing is sweltering.

In all honestly, I usually only wear a corset when I have to during work, but I couldn’t dishonor the expensive dress I’m wearing by messing up the lines of it.

I unfasten the top button of my _wool coat_ that I decided to wear _in May_ (but, in my defense, it’s barely thirty degrees out, and there’s still snow on top of the Grizzlies in the distance) and crack the window. The crisp air feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in days, and I lean my head against the cool glass. The elderly couple across the aisle from me scoff and glance at me because I have the _audacity_ to open the window, but I really couldn’t care right now. I just need a break from the heat.

As I turn my head away from them and gaze back out the window, I notice something on the tracks ahead. _Is that a wagon? No, an oil wagon! And is that a man standing on top of it?!_

As soon as I notice it, the train suddenly and violently breaks. I fly forward into the back of the chair in front of me, barely saving my face from hitting the wood. I hear the woman across the aisle _huff_ as the wind gets knocked out of her, and her husband doesn’t save himself like I did and fully hits his head on the seat, grunting afterwards.

I push my hat back on my head, and check outside the window again. The train stopped right in front of the oil tank. The man is gone.

I grab my travel bag from the floor in front of me and clutch it tightly in my lap. The other passengers are reordering themselves and their belongings, murmuring to each other, trying to figure out what is happening. I could tell them and save them the trouble.

We’re being robbed.

I start to hear muffled shouts from the train cars in front of ours, screams and distant _thumps._ My hands tighten on the handle of my bag as I can hear the noises coming closer. Sweat drips down my spine, my corset doing absolutely nothing to calm me, only making it hard to take the necessary calming breaths.

I’m staring straight ahead as they come through our door. _I have to do my best to not react. Don’t give them anything they can use against me_.

“This is a fucking robbery! Put your money and valuables in the bag and no one gets hurt!” the first man yells. He has a scratchy voice and scraggly hair, covered by a hat. The other man, who I can now see was on the oil tank, is wearing a long blue coat and has shorter, combed back hair. They’re both wearing bandanas over their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed.

I keep staring ahead, clutching my travel case to my lap as they methodically make their way down the cart. I made sure to get a seat in the back row for tactical reasons, and I am glad of it now. I know that they’ll “visit” me last before moving on to the baggage carts behind us.

Occasionally, I can hear begging from the passengers, shouting from Scraggly Man, then a loud _thump_ as Blue Coat punches resistant passengers. Most just toss their things in the sack before backing away frantically.

They get to the couple across from me, who try to put up a fight, but Blue Coat barely has to move before the husband tosses _their entire bag_ into the sack. Unbelievable.

I see the two men turn to me out of the corner of my eye. I try to breathe.

“Alright, lady, you’re last. Get your money and valuables in this bag or you’ll be sorry,” Scraggly Man said in his scratchy voice. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, but this is the kind of adrenaline that I encountered in work all the time. I can handle this.

I ignore them.

“Lady, we’re on a schedule, and I’m done asking nicely. Put your fucking bag in!” he shouted, Blue Coat turning towards me and gripping the handle of his revolver.

“No.”

The word leaves my lips in a steady voice, the one I’ve been trained to use in stressful situations. The two men glance at each other, and Blue Coat takes a step closer to me.

“I really don’t want to mess up your pretty face, and I’m sure Mr. Morgan here wants to even less than me, but we have a job to do. Give us your things and you won’t get hurt,” Scraggly Man says, a little more even tempered.

“And I said no. You have plenty of things in there, you certainly don’t need what little I have in here,” I reply evenly, coldly.

I’m lying. They would get triple their score if they got my bag. I can’t let them have it.

I can’t let them ruin my chance to start over.

Scraggly Man sighs, and nods to Mr. Morgan, who flips his revolver over so he’s holding the barrel, intent on beating me with the handle. He steps into the row and in front of me.

Quickly, almost too quick for either man to react, I punch Mr. Morgan in the jaw, grab his lapel so his back is to my front, and shove the stiletto blade that was stashed in the handle of my case to his throat.

He reacts almost as fast as I do. He struggles when I grab him, almost shrugging out of his coat, so I wrap my arm around his collar bone, steadying him against me. He’s quite a bit taller than me, so I have to strain a bit to keep him still, but eventually he stills.

Scraggly Man has finally caught up to the situation, and slowly raises his hands in a peaceful gesture, still holding his gun and the sack full of valuables.

“Ma’am, we don’t have to do this,” Scraggly Man says calmly, trying and failing to coax me.

“Oh, it’s _ma’am_ now?” I say, venom staining my voice. “If you had started that way, we might be getting somewhere. But it’s too late for all that _society speak_. Now it’s my turn to make demands. You are going to let me go. I’ll get off this train, walk away from this mess, and you won’t hear from me again. I won’t send any lawmen or marshals after you. That, or I spill this man’s throat all over this train car.”

Scraggly Man makes eye contact with Mr. Morgan, and didn’t like what he sees, based on the scowl that crosses his eyes.

“I wish I could take your word that you’d get out of here cleanly, but we’re not the only two in this operation. We are certainly the most calm, though.” Scraggly Man says this in a voice that I’m sure is supposed to be reasonable, but is patronizing instead.

“I can handle myself. Clearly. Fucking amateur,” I say, and the man struggles against my hold.

“C'mon, John, just shoot her alrea-“ I cut off his words by pressing my knife into his throat. Any move and blood will fly.

“What I’m asking for is simple, John. I’m here for a fresh start, and I will not let it get ruined by the likes of you two. Me and my new friend here are going to go through this door behind me, get off the train, and walk a ways. If he or you gets any fancy ideas, I’ll slash his throat and stain his nice blue coat. You’ll never see Pretty Boy again.”

“Pretty boy?!” Mr. Morgan growls, but I tighten my hold again.

“I’m going to get my bag and we’re going to walk out of here, okay John?” I say calmly, despite my heartbeat being so fast I feel like I might faint.

John narrows his eyes and glances at Morgan’s face again, silently communicating. Mr. Morgan nods and starts shaking slightly. John tightens his hand on his gun, clearly getting ready to brawl.

“ _Please_.”

I blurt this out. The crack that comes with my voice manages to shake John out of his battle stance, and Blue Coat goes completely still under my hold. They’re in complete shock at the change of tenor in my voice.

“Please. I need to start over. Please.”

Tears push on the edges of my vision, despite my best efforts. I fucking hate the wobble in my voice as my desperation finally becomes known. Idiot.

Mr. Morgan nods at John, and carefully starts to move away from my hold, putting his hands in the air.

“Alright, lady, we’ll do it your way. Take me to the bridge behind the train and leave me there. We have a big enough score that we don’t need yours,” Mr. Morgan says, his voice rumbly with years of cigarette smoking.

I swallow. It doesn’t get the lump out of my throat. I clear my throat, and nod.

John backs away and I release Arthur’s throat. I quickly grab my bag from the floor, keeping my eyes on the two the entire time.

“Don’t get any ideas, Pretty Boy, because if you make a move, I _will_ come out on top. Make no mistake.” I growl, beckoning him to go in front of me.

 _Home free_ , I saw in my head. Prematurely.

Because when I make my way out into the aisle and Blue Coat turns to lead me, his eyes widen like he’s startled.

“Sean, no!-“

That’s the last thing I hear before a massive, sharp, sudden pain blooms from the back of my head, like I was hit by a gun. My knees give out, and I’m on the floor before I can even see spots. I grip my bag in my hand as my vision slowly blacks out to the sounds of shouting above me.

* * *

 

I’m dreaming. I know I am because I really don’t have control over my body. I can hear and I can see through a cloud of black, but my limbs are lead.

 _Wake up!_ I can hear my subconscious scream at me, but my eyelids are so heavy. Besides, I can hear plenty.

There’s hooves on the ground, approaching where I am. I faintly hear someone yelling, then I can hear Mr. Morgan respond.

“There’s only two of you, you fools, and we got a whole lot less to lose. Why don’t the two of you ride away? That way neither of you get killed. Goddamn liberties,” in Mr. Morgan’s gravelly voice. I piece together that he’s talking to lawmen.

I start to fade out again, only to hear gunshots next. I try to jolt myself awake, but my body is moving, and the pain increases as it moves faster. My head throbs harder with every gallop, like my brain is going to explode out of the back of my head. Distinct yelling, voices in the distance, the whizzing of bullets so close I can almost feel them, then black again.

* * *

 

I force my eyes open again, only managing slits, as I hear an Irishman say “I found it! It says Da-” in an excited voice, like he’s won a prize at a carnival. My hearing blanks out again.

* * *

 

I moan, and try to sit up, only managing to shift a bit, enough to find out that I’m tied to the back _of a fucking horse_. Not even riding. Humiliating.

The movement of galloping causes the blood to rush to my head, and my vision once again turns black as I fade away.

* * *

 

I _know_ I’m awake this time, because I can feel something besides the incessant throbbing in my head. Ropes. Tied around my wrists. I squint at the rising light, to see that I’m tied to a tree.

I grunt and move my hands, only to find them completely immobilized in the ropes. My coat is laying on the ground beneath me, laid down like a cot to protect me from the bare ground. I brush my bound hands over it, but find that all of my hidden knives have been found and taken out. My shoes, and three additional knives, are also gone, leaving me barefoot in the crisp morning air.

I have about five feet of rope until it connects to the tree, which is more dignity than I was expecting. I’m surprised I wasn’t tied from shoulder to ankle on the trunk.

I flip from my stomach to my right side, moaning in pain as my brain explodes out of where I was hit again. I feel other bandages covering my arms and neck, but before I can inspect them, I see a crowd of men and women standing around me, most of them holding guns. John and Mr. Morgan are here, flanking an older man in a vest and another with a bowler hat and a thick, black mustache.

Mustache Man is the first to speak.

“Welcome back to the world, Daisy McCormack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of fic and chapters come from Irish folk song "Irish Boy." I only know of the Patty Griffin version, but I still love it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. like a drunk on a subway floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!
> 
> I didn't write much in the author's notes at the beginning of the fic, but there will be side pairings and, while mostly canon-compliant, will diverge at points (let's say I disagree with the writers of RDR2, and don't appreciate them carving my fucking heart out). 
> 
> I'll be adding tags and such as the fic goes on, but I don't have much of it mapped out. I have some great scenes in my mind, but don't know where they'll fall within the fic. My mind is a god of chaos and I'm just along for the ride. 
> 
> Please drop comments with anything and everything. Comments are like crack to the god of chaos. Feed it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“Welcome back to the world, Daisy McCormack.”

Mustache Man says it with a smile, but I feel anything but joy radiating from the rest of them. They are tense and ready to shoot at any sudden movement, any twitch that I might make towards the man speaking.

Slowly, I turn so I’m sitting facing the group, and I reach to dab the back of my head with my bound hands. Dried blood.

_At least it’s not bleeding anymore, that’s a good sign. I think._

“We made sure to patch you up a bit before you woke. Miss Grimshaw’s handiwork,” the gray-haired man says, gesturing to a woman behind him. Her sour expression and wrinkled nose tells me everything about why she didn’t bother to _clean_ my wound, but just repair it.

“Well, thank you for your service, Miss Grimshaw, gentlemen, it was very kind of you. But I’m afraid I have to take my leave. I’ll miss my next train,” I say, with as much politesse as I could manage. My feet are cold.

“I think that time has passed, Miss McCormack. You slept through the morning, and there ain’t a train until tomorrow night,” Mustache Man replies.

“If it’s all the same, Mr.-“

“Dutch. Just call me Dutch.”

“Dutch, then. If it’s all the same, I still need to go. I have a schedule to maintain and a new life to start. Hopefully this event will be only a small misfortune in my future to come,” I say, holding out my bound hands for any one of these people to cut.

No one moves. Of course. I put my hands in my lap.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss McCormack. You’ve seen all our faces now, and we’re wanted men. Every one of us. How do we know you won’t go straight into Valentine and sic the lawmen on us?” Dutch asks, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Believe me when I say that doing that will likely only cause harm to myself.” I stare around the half circle of people, observing as much as possible. John has some nasty, still healing wounds on his face, which were covered by the bandana on the train. Mr. Morgan is growing in a beard and wearing the same clothes as he was on the train. A faint red line stretches across his throat, where I held my stiletto knife. There’s also a handful of others, looking like they came from all walks of life, but all giving me the same glare.

“And why would that be?” Dutch diverts my attention back to our conversation.

“For the sake of my own safety, I can’t say. Likely will get me killed here, too, amongst you folks. I’m in the interest of starting a new life, not ending my current one,” I reply. My eyes shoot around the circle again, seeking out a target who can possibly get me out of this. Someone who will give me information from their posture, their nervous tics, their darting eyes, that I can exploit to help me escape.

 _To save my life, I’ll do it just this once. Just one more time, then I’m done forever_.

“Life couldn’t have been that hard for a beautiful woman like yourself, Miss McCormack,” Dutch drawls, cocking his head to the side. My eyes whip back to his, a scowl on my mouth.

“My looks are my fucking curse, sir. They have gotten me nothing but pain and misery, and I’d rather have just about anything but the face I wear!” I spit, barely keeping control over my sudden anger. I really shouldn’t be so brash, but he hit a sore spot.

“My dear –“

“Please,” I blurt, feeling my temper lower, “just-just call me Daisy. If I’m calling you by name, I’d appreciate the same respect.”

He smiles at that, chuckling up at the gray-haired man.

“She’s got spirit. But, I guess we already knew that, if Arthur and John tell it true.”

He glances at both the men, who bristle a bit at the memories of the train.

“Well, _Daisy_ , let me ask you one more thing,” Dutch says, pulling a cigar out of his vest and lighting a match on the ground. “Why do you see your destiny so far out in the west?”

This puzzles me a bit. _Who wouldn’t want to go west?_ I repeat this to him.

“Humor me, please. Plenty of urbane folk insist that they wish to follow Manifest Destiny but turn tail at the first sign of a bear, or a snake, or an insect too big. I don’t know you, but you don’t seem the type to run from danger. You also don’t seem like the type of woman who can rough the open country, so humor me: Why is someone like you trying to escape to the uncivilized lands?”

I shoot my eyes around the circle again, trying to gain any kind of insight that might give me the upper hand here. No one looks like they’d be from the West, so I can’t use San Francisco or Portland as my excuse. There is a Mexican man, but I’m going west, not south.

The rest seem like drifters, like they have been their whole lives. The women have hem scars on the skirts of their dresses, where they have been taken in or out, likely trading them between themselves. Their clothes are all dirty, like no kind of river water can save the fabric from the cruelty of nature. The men all have gun holsters, stained by mud and gore, but their guns are in perfect, shining condition. Like they earn their keep by taking their keep. Dishonestly.

But none seem fazed by this. No, they’re all glad to be here, otherwise they would not have the back of the man crouching before me. He would not command their respect like this if he did not provide for them, and them for him.

They trust him to protect them from the evils of society, from the filth of the civilized world. Like he’ll take them west to build a new life and never turn back.

 _An interesting American dream. So, maybe I’ll share with them the truth of my American dream_.

I sigh, but turn my face back to look in Dutch’s eyes. “I’m only seeking a better world.”

* * *

 

Dutch waved them off after that, the group dispersing and meeting back by the big tent in the middle of camp. Dutch followed them, after holding my gaze for a while, trying to process what I said. He stamped his cigar out in the dirt, pocketing the remains for later, and walked back to the group.

Apparently, I said something of worth. Now, I’m waiting for their judgment.

That was several hours ago. Most of the men and women have resumed their doings about camp.

I reposition myself to sit with my back against the tree I’m tied to, staring out over the horizon to the setting sun.

_This truly is a beautiful place._

The camp is settled on the edge of a cliff overlooking a sharp bend in the river below. _Likely why it’s named Horseshoe Overlook_ , I think wryly. On the other side of the canyon is more cliffs with a wooded area on top, and in the distance are the snowcapped Grizzlies. Hawks soar overhead, gazing below for their next meal.

When I decided to escape and move west, this is exactly what I thought it would be. I’m not here under the ideal circumstances, but you sure can’t beat the view.

The wind picks up from the valley and blows my hair around my face, sending chills of goosebumps up my arms. When I reach up and shift the mahogany waves out of my eyes, I notice two small bare feet are standing just beyond mine.

“Momma says I should wear shoes when it gets chilly like this, but I don’t listen sometimes. Why aren’t you wearing any?” the little boy asks me.

He is staring down at me with his head cocked to the side, wearing grubby clothes and with filthy feet. Clearly, he’s had a more mobile day than me, but that goes without saying for a boy who looks to be five years old.

“I think the gentlemen here took them away from me,” I reply, giving him a small smile, twitching my head towards the camp. “The men were stinky, but my shoes were even stinkier, and they wanted to know the trick to getting the stinkiest boots.”

I wrinkle my nose and make a snorting sound like a pig, and the boy giggles.

“So why do Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea have you tied up?” he asks, sitting down on the ground beyond my stretched-out feet.

I sigh and look down at my hands. “What’s your name, little fella?”

“Jack.”

“Well, Jack, I did a bad thing on the train out of town. Well, it wasn’t bad, really, but your Uncle John and Uncle Arthur probably didn’t like me too much for doing it. So, they told your other uncles, and they’re keeping me here for a while.”

The boy tilts his head again at my explanation, furrowing his brow. “John isn’t my uncle, he’s my pa! ‘Sides, Uncle Arthur always calls us all bad men, so I’m sure what you did wasn’t that bad.”

Huh. Besides his eyes and chin, the boy doesn’t resemble John all that much. But it is hard to tell at this age. “Oh, John’s your pa?”

“Yeah, but he and Momma argue all the time, so sometimes I don’t want him to be my pa.”

My heart sinks a bit. The children under my protection usually led horrible lives before I met them; lives that make Jack seem like he’s growing up in luxury. But it’s hard to hear a child admit something like this. Children should be free to play, not to be frightened of screaming adults.

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, Jack. Do you want me to tell you a story?” I say with a smile.

“Yes, plea-“

“Jack, you get away from her!” a woman shouted from nearby. Jack shoots up like an explosion, and I look over to the center of camp where a dark-haired woman has her hands on her hips, staring the boy down.

“Aw, Momma, she was just gonna tell me a story! Least I’m not throwing rocks at her,” he says sheepishly, glancing back my way. That’s probably his favorite pastime for the other prisoners this camp has had.

“Throwing rocks isn’t very nice, young man,” I admonish, raising my hands to wag a finger at him.

He giggles again, like the tinkling of bells. “Uncle Arthur says he’s not a nice man all the time, and he’s great!”

“Jack Marston, heed my words!” the woman shouts again, taking a step towards us.

“You better mind your momma, Jack. It was a pleasure to meet you.” I say with a gentle smile, gesturing back towards camp.

“Thanks, Miss-“

“Daisy. You can call me Daisy.”

“Thanks Miss Daisy!”

I chuckle at the sweet words and he runs to his mother, turning back to wave excitedly at me. I raise my hands to wave back.

“He always has a soft spot for women. He ain’t quite so shy around them,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn to look. Mr. Morgan is walking up to my tree, thumbs hooked in his belt, hat tipped down to cover much of his face.

“Based on the company he keeps, I can’t say I blame him for preferring the women, Mr. Morgan,” I reply, turning to look back out at the landscape beyond the overlook.

He leans on a tree to my right, still standing. “Well, least we can say he has sense, but the ladies keepin’ this camp ain’t none better than the men,” he responds, pulling a cigarette box out of his pocket.

“You really must be careful of the woes of women, Mr. Morgan, they’ll sneak right under your good senses and stab you in the back if they get the chance,” I say with a wry smile, turning my face towards him again.

“Wow, you really understand the women runnin’ camp already,” he says, and I chuckle. “And, it’s just Arthur. People ‘sides Dutch calling me Mr. Morgan makes me uncomfortable.”

“Okay, Arthur,” I say with a slight smile. He breaks eye contact to light a match on the bottom of his foot. After lighting up and blowing out the first huff of smoke, he settles on the ground under the tree, drawing one knee up and keeping his other leg straight.

 _He has a nice face, despite his best efforts_ , I think to myself, glancing over him. His stubble is slightly darker than his light brown hair, just covering his ears and neck. Straight nose, with a slight bump where it may have been broken but corrected quickly after. Nice, strong jaw and cheekbones.

But his eyes are where he could truly be considered handsome. A blue-gray that shines like, well, like _something_ , with long, dark lashes that brush his cheek when he looks down.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it between two fingers on his knee. “Dutch and Hosea got your travel case, likely lookin’ through it with Bill right about now,” he remarks, tapping the ashes off the cigarette onto the ground.

Relief washes through me at the mention of my case being nearby, but I’m nervous about what exactly they’ll find in it. “It was inevitable, I guess. I’m just glad I didn’t lose it.”

“What on Earth could be in there needs protectin’ like that?” he asks suddenly. I finally notice the thin line again on his throat.

 _I don’t want to give too much away, in case they don’t find something_ , I tell myself.

“That bag contains my life, at least what it used to be. It also carries the potential of what it _could_ be. I felt that was worth protecting.” I remark, and he nods, looking back down at the ground. “And, for the record, I am sorry about that.”

I gesture towards my throat, and he coughs, rubbing at his with his free hand.

“Ah, it ain’t nothin’. I’ve gotten plenty a worse, believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t have to. I met you as you were robbing my train, I’m sure my little cut was a pleasure compared to some injuries you’ve had,” I say, smiling at him.

This gets a laugh. “Oh, you have no idea, Miss McCormack.”

“Please. If I’m to call you Arthur, please call me Daisy. I don’t like when things aren’t mutual between two people,” I quickly respond.

One corner of his mouth quirks up at my words. “I ain’t never thought of it that way, but seems fair. Daisy.” He adds the last word after a pause.

The way he says my name, lengthening the first syllable and rolling the rest off his tongue, triggers a reaction in me. I feel heat come to my cheeks and I quickly look away from him, embarrassed that I don’t have more control. _Idiot. He only said your name_.

I frown, looking over the cliff again as I say, “I’ve had plenty of things happen to me that weren’t mutual, Arthur. What I can control, I like to.”

I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, looking at me quizzically like he’s trying to find the meaning of my words. “What kind of thi-“

“Arthur, you get away from her!”

We both jump at the sudden shout from the approaching footsteps. A burly man, who I’m assuming is Bill, is stomping towards where we are sitting. Dutch and Hosea are close on his heels, both looking grave. Dutch is clutching something in his hand, and based on their reaction I can guess what it is.

Arthur slowly gets to his feet. “Calm down, ya damn fool, I was just talkin’ to her.”

“Well, Arthur, my boy, you _really_ don’t know who you’re talking to,” Hosea said, taking a couple steps closer to me than the others had, crouching down right in front of me. He starts to examine my face closely, eyes flicking at my features.

“What the hell you talkin’ about, Hosea, of course we don’t know her,” Arthur replies, off put and slightly angry. “Talkin’s how you get to know people, and far as I know, she’s a god damn mystery to all of us!”

“What I do know is that she’s the enemy,” Dutch speaks suddenly, “so Bill, could you please tie her more securely to the tree.”

Arthur’s eyes now shoot to Dutch, no doubt wondering what has him so spooked. Bill draws his hunting knife and cuts my bindings, only to use the excess rope tied to the tree to bind my hands around the trunk behind me. The ropes bite into my wrist, causing me to wince and jump.

Arthur sees this and walks to Dutch. “Is this really necessary, Dutch? She weren’t gonna do nothin’ bound up like she was.”

“Before, I would have believed you, Arthur, but now I’m not so sure,” Dutch intones, throwing what was in his fist on the ground at my feet. The shining metal catches the light, and my heart sinks to my stomach. _Shit_.

Arthur squints down at the metal, crouching next to Hosea to get a closer look. “What the hell is-“

“It’s her badge. With her operating number and certification,” Dutch explains to him, his eyes turned to ice on my face. I swallow nervously.

“It means she’s a Pinkerton,” Bill says from behind me, and I hear a gun cock close to my ear. “We have a _goddamn Pinkerton in our camp_!”

His shout makes me jump again, turning my head away from the gun held to it.

When I look back at the three men in front of me, they’re all standing again, cold disdain on their features. Arthur has put out his cigarette, and his hand is now hovering over his holstered gun, waiting for an opportunity to draw.

_Well, fuck._


	3. you can find no good reason to tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy tells her story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: depicts implied past abuse, no description though. 
> 
> I'm really glad at how this story is turning out, but if you have suggestions on what you'd like to see on Daisy's journey, I'd be more than glad to receive them!

“How in the hell did we get a Pinkerton in the camp?!”

“Well, surely I don’t know, Arthur, why don’t you tell _me_ that?!”

“It was Marston’s fucking idea, why don’t he get over here and account for this?”

“He isn’t here, and we need some fucking answers!”

“I didn’t even know the Pinkertons hired women! I ain’t never heard of such a thing!"

“Well, you can’t deny the proof right in front of your _fucking face!_ ”

This has been going on for a while now. I’m being held at gunpoint by Bill, Arthur and Dutch are going at it like two dogs after a bone, and Hosea isn’t doing much of anything besides trying to solve the mysteries of my face. My shoulders are already burning with the strain of my arms being tied around the tree.

This is not going at all planned. Not that I planned any of this _fucking day_.

“Well, if we’re not gonna come up with some kind of solution, I’m just gonna put a bullet in her head and be done with it!” Bill shouts from behind me, pushing the gun further into my head. I whimper, moving as far away from the barrel as possible.

_Why don’t you just let him fucking shoot you, get it over with. This escape plan was never going to work. It was either dying on the road, or Dwight catches up to you with his Pinkerton army._

“No, Bill! What kind of honor is there in shooting a woman tied to a tree?” Hosea finally speaks up, holding a hand up to stop Bill from painting the tree with my brains. His voice gets Dutch and Arthur’s attention, and they turn back to me from their bickering.

Bill doesn’t lower his gun, but he stops pressing it to the side of my head. I inhale through my nose, and try to shake the mahogany tresses of my hair out of my face, to no avail.

Suddenly, Hosea’s hand is gently pushing my hair away from my face, only to gently grab my chin and examine the angles of my face. “Now, seems to me the lady here ain’t some kind of mercenary like the ones we’ve run across. Is that right?”

I manage to nod a bit, confirming that I haven’t been party to whatever horror they’ve faced from the Agency on the road.

“Good. That’s something. There’s more than meets the eye here, Dutch. And I think we should hear her out.” Hosea says this softly, gently releasing my chin again to turn towards the leader.

“Now, wait just a minute, Hosea-“ Arthur butts in, shaking his head to the suggestion.

Bill presses the gun to my temple again, making me flinch. “Far as I see it, old man, she ain’t nothin’ but the enemy. We dispatch the enemy for the good of the cause. I see one option, and if you ain’t seein’ it then I’ll take it into my own hands.”

He cocks his gun again, and my stomach turns to water in fear. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating the end.

“Put your damn gun away, you self-righteous idiot, ‘fore you make another mistake like the Cornwall train!” Arthur hisses.

“Will you let that shit go, already?!”

“Enough!” Dutch’s voice silences the bickering again, and Arthur and Bill clench their jaws. Hosea is still puzzling me out in front of me. “Now, far as I see it, she ain’t gonna do anything from there, so we can all just calm down. Hosea’s right that she doesn’t look like much of a mercenary, but we don’t know anything beyond that. What we need-“

“Please. Just ask me and I’ll tell you everything. Anything.”

This comes out of my mouth in almost a whisper, my voice wavering from panic.

I have no choice. I need to tell them my story.

“And why should we believe that?” Arthur demands, scowling down at me.

“Because what the hell do I have to lose?” I say, staring up into his steel eyes. His eyes soften, just a bit, at the tone in my voice. “This is not where I want my story to end, tied up to a tree like a lamb ready for slaughter. I’ll tell you everything, then you can decide what you want to do with me.”

I’m making a huge gamble here. I’ve been here long enough to know that while these people are outlaws, they work hard to provide for each other. Basically, they’re good people to their own, and will do anything to protect that.

Exactly what I didn’t have at the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

“And if we decide we don’t like what you say?” Dutch asks, putting a hand on a hip.

“Then you can get it over with and be done. Not like I had much of a chance out here, anyway.”

“And if we hear what you say and turn you in?” Hosea adds, pursing his lips.

My throat tightens, and despite my best efforts, tears begin to stream down my cheeks.

“Then I’ll do it myself and spare you the trouble. I’m never going back there alive.”

Hosea lets out a breath and glances up at Dutch. “I say we give her a chance to explain herself. Can’t hurt anybody to listen to her story.”

“What if she’s lyin’, Hosea? We can’t trust a word outta her mouth, what kind of truth do you think she owes us?” Arthur demands from Dutch’s side.

“What do I have to gain by lying, Arthur Morgan? I don’t think I could possibly lose your trust more than I already have. If it makes a difference, I swear that I will tell you the truth.” I say this, keeping eye contact with the man as I speak.

Dutch sighs, and gestures towards me. “Alright, Hosea, we’ll hear the girl out. Not like I’m doing anything useful this afternoon, anyway.”

My heart slows a bit, ramping down from the blind panic I was in.

“Aw, hell, I can’t believe this shit!” Bill whines from behind me, pulling his gun away from my direction. “We’re just gonna fucking listen to the sob story of a Pinkerton?”

“If you ain’t interested, Williamson, then you don’t have to stay,” Arthur says, annoyed.

At this, Bill scoffs and waves an arm in Arthur’s face before storming off to where the horses are, saddling up and riding out of camp.

“Alright, Miss McCormack, I would suggest starting at the beginning,” Hosea says, as Dutch and Arthur go to grab some chairs that were sitting around a table in camp. “We appreciate honesty, but you’re gonna need a lot of it in order to get anywhere with us.”

“I understand. I just have a small request before I start.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Arthur asks, setting one of the chairs down for Hosea, while he and Dutch sit on either side of him.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

* * *

 

I gulp eagerly at the offered bottle from Dutch, downing at least a third of the whiskey in one go. Hosea doesn’t seem surprised, but Arthur’s jaw drops at my ability to guzzle.

Dutch pulls the bottle away, and I wipe my face on my shoulder.

“Thanks for obliging. I promise you the truth, but it’s going to be hard for me to talk about. Get a good drink in me, though, and I’ll babble like a brook,” I say with a wry smile, feeling warmth already from the alcohol.

Hosea chuckles at my words. “I don’t doubt it, Miss Daisy. Now, where does your tail of woe begin?”

I motion with my head for more drink, this time provided by Arthur. He tips the bottle back at my lips, and I take an extra long drink before breaking off. “Ireland, actually.”

“Ireland, really?” Dutch asks with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Ireland. I was born in County Clare and raised there for a while with my parents.” The warmth blooms to my cheeks and I lean into the fuzzy feeling of my buzz.

“Well, I was expecting you to start at the beginning, but maybe not quite that far,” Dutch murmurs, getting a small smile from Arthur.

“It’s relevant, believe me,” I say earnestly. Hosea motions for me to continue. “My da died from the cholera when I was little, maybe five or six, so my ma sold our family farm for tickets to America. Figured that would be the best place for a woman who had to start over.” I swallow the slight bile formed by the alcohol in my mouth. “She died on the boat.”

“Jesus,” Arthur exclaims softly, making eye contact with Dutch over Hosea.

“When we made it to Ellis Island, I knew they weren’t going to take in an orphaned girl with no family in America to vouch for her. So, I snuck away from the gates and made it to the bay. Swam all the way into New York Harbor and was fished out of the ocean by some dock workers,” I say. Dutch whistles at this, shaking his head.

“I worked in factories for a while, the overseers always eager for small hands that could reach into tiny spaces. I learned to speak English better than my parents had taught me, and found that life was easier without my Irish accent, so I dropped that as well. Made enough money that I caught the attention of some street urchin gangs, so I ran with a couple of those for a while, picking pockets on the side. The orphanage never gave an allowance or ran a school, so I had to find some way to be occupied,” I say, settling back into the tree with a small smile on my face. My drunk habit of getting rosy cheeks is starting to bloom, and I catch Arthur starting at my red face.

“So, how’d you find your way into the Pinkerton’s service?” Dutch asks, trying to cut to the chase. I motion for more drink, and Arthur tips the bottle to my mouth again.

After I swallow, I start in again.

“It began when I was ten. I’d already been in the country for a few years, ran with those gangs, so I knew my way around the streets and factories in New York. I was also able to worm my way out of trouble when I got into it, always disappearing around a corner or slipping through someone’s hands. Until one day, I didn’t.”

I sigh, remembering Dwight. “A man caught me trying to lift his wallet in a crowded square, and brought me in to his boss’s office. I thought I was going to get the shit beat out of me.” I rolled my eyes, the memory of the worst decision of my life washing over me. I couldn’t stop the words if I tried. “Instead, the men introduced themselves. The boss was Colin Swanson, and the man who caught me was Dwight Williams. They gave me a candy and said that they worked for a company called the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I already knew about them; only an idiot would be ignorant to the workings of the Pinkertons in New York. He offered me a job that I wouldn’t dare refuse.”

“You spied on workers for them, didn’t you?” Hosea asks suddenly, completely taken in with my story.

I nod slowly, silently asking for more drink. Arthur obliges.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Arthur asks, taking the bottle from my lips after a while.

“The Pinkertons have their hands in plenty of pots around the country, Arthur. We’ve only seen a small number of those under their employ, and only in a couple of fields that they deal with. Back east, they’re hired by factories to watch for unionizers and their ilk. It’s expensive for companies to keep protected unionized employees, so it’s best for the bosses to keep their workers ignorant,” Hosea explains patiently, Arthur nodding along.

“So the Agency would send in agents disguised as factory workers to keep their ears to the ground, listening for rumblings to unionize. When they got wind of a group of people about to make demands, they’d send in their muscle to, well, discourage them. That’s a nice way to put it,” I add, Hosea nodding.

“They’d beat up the people standing up for better wages?” Arthur asks, screwing his face up in disgust. I nod again.

“Not the prettiest practice, but certainly one that kept the money in the hands of the investors and owners,” Hosea says.

“So you spied on workers. That doesn’t require a full employment by the Pinkertons, but you still have the badge. How did that happen?” Dutch interjects, still cautious. This time, he held the bottle to my lips for me to drink.

I wipe my mouth again, lips beginning to tingle with the drink. “I did that for them for about three years, and ended up breaking some big union gangs within the factories. The gig was never going to last, though, and they caught wind of me eventually. But, that wasn’t before Colin and Dwight started to notice that I was a strange child.”

I say this, and look off to the trees to the west of camp. A squirrel climbs up the rough trunk of a tree, a big walnut in his mouth.

“What kind of strange?” Arthur asks gruffly, trying to get my attention back to the story.

“I was unusually observant. When I was first under their employ, they would blindfold me and lead me to their headquarters, but I always managed to know where I was. At one point, when they were about to blindfold me and escort me back to the orphanage after I recounted my findings, I told them not to bother, and made my way back with no effort. I also always saw through the disguises of the other Pinkerton workers, and sometimes accidentally unraveled plots by asking them about the Agency while in the earshot of other workers. I was also able to tell who was actually leading the unionizers, even if they were not in the limelight of the movement. In the Agency’s eyes, that made me valuable.”

My heart sinks, knowing what is coming next.

“Then what? You couldn’t keep busting unions forever,” Hosea says, leading me to the next part in my tale.

“Then they figured I was a woman enough to pick up a different kind of business. So, instead of spying in union houses and factories, I started spying in brothels and saloons.”

Dutch huffs, scratching his cheek and shaking his head at the ground. Arthur looks between the two older men, trying to puzzle out my meaning again.

“She means that the Pinkertons dressed her up and whored her out to gain information,” Hosea explains patiently, with disgust. I flinch at the word but nod anyway, and Arthur’s mouth drops open a bit.

“I was promoted from spying on unions to spying on whoever they goddamn pleased,” I say, contempt rife in my voice. “They purchased dresses and shoes for me, racking up a huge debt they expected me to pay off through my services. They sent me, dolled up and exposed, into every seedy bar in the city. I learned how to pick up men, get information from them in any way possible, please them with any part of my body, sometimes multiple men, sometimes harm them, then get out cleanly. After a couple of years of this, they decided that I earned the protection that a Pinkerton badge would afford me, not that it would save me from anything that actually mattered.”

“How long?” Dutch asks suddenly, with surprise sympathy written on his face.

I sigh, for what feels like the thousandth time. “Twelve years.”

Hosea shakes his head in disbelief, while Arthur gets up and walks away, hands on his hips and pacing a couple of yards away. I hear him swear a couple of times, too.

“How in the hell-“ Dutch begins, but I interrupt him.

“Eventually, I caught wind that these men, Colin and Dwight and the rest of those fuckers, were never doing this to spare a child from the streets. My childhood was already lost, was lost in the New York Harbor, but I was still a child. They decided to take that away from me too, and debase me into nothing.”

My voice, which had held out until now, finally cracks, and my body starts racking with sobs. I haven’t cried like this in a long time. I haven’t been allowed to.

Dutch waits for me to catch my breath, then holds the bottle up for me. I finish it.

“I was nothing more than a pawn to them for fifteen _fucking_ years of my life. When I turned sixeen, they even started passing me around among themselves.”

“Goddamn them,” Hosea whispers, clenching his jaw. “Those fucking bastards!”

“You don’t even know the half of what they did, but you can guess enough, so I’ll spare you those details,” I say earnestly, Arthur rejoining the two men in their chairs, jaw tight.

“The other kids who were hired by the Agency, who started off like me, I tried to warn them to get out. But, to an orphan on the streets, the money was too good to refuse. I started caring for them, teaching them to read if they didn’t know, keeping them from most of the evils the men we were employed by, and taking the brunt of the abuse in their stead. Eventually, something had to give, or something was going to break.”

“Please tell me it broke and you killed every one of those fuckers,” Arthur whispers, hands in fists on the sides of the chair.

I snort at that, now officially drunk and dizzy. “Nah, I wish. I paid off most of those kids’ debts to the Agency with most of the money I had saved from my missions, and used the rest to get a train ticket as far west as I could manage. I always read about the Old West in books and newspapers, and had always dreamed that this would be the place I would escape to.

“So, I bought widow’s clothes,” I said, nodding down at my black clothing, “because I knew that people would respect and sympathize with me, but still stay away. I boarded a train, and haven’t looked back since. You found me on the tail end of my journey.”

I say this with a sigh, looking at Arthur, who is staring at me with strange intensity. I break off to once again admire the view of Horseshoe Overlook. “Anyway, that’s my tale of woe. Or at least as much as I can tell without vomiting from the sheer memories of it.”

Dutch and Hosea make eye contact, having a silent conversation between the two of them. Then, Dutch turns to Arthur. “Mr. Morgan, why don’t you feed our guest the rest of that bottle you got there, then join me and Hosea in my tent. There is much to discuss.”

Arthur nods gruffly, standing for Dutch to take his chair back to camp, Hosea on his heels. Arthur stays and gives me the remaining dregs of the bottle, before following them and slipping into the large tent that must be Dutch’s.

I weep a little more at the rush of memories that the alcohol digs up in my mind, arms now fully asleep from being tied up, but as the sun sets I cry myself into an uneasy, restless slumber.

 


	4. there's too many men telling their secrets these days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy awaits her fate after telling her tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really humbled by the kind comments I've received from you. Comments are the #1 encouragement for authors, so thanks all! (also, I'm addicted to comments, so keep the supply going :)
> 
> I'm going to try (desperately) to keep a decent update schedule going for as long as possible. I've been really terrible about it with my previous fics, but I really want to do this one justice. Next chapter should be up on Sunday!

It has been two days since I confessed to being a Pinkerton.

I woke up with a wicked hangover, and have been watched over ever since by a cast of characters from the camp. While Dutch and Hosea mull over what exactly they want to do with me, they send the others from the camp to keep their eyes on me.

Every two hours, one taps out and another joins me, always sitting in a chair next to the tree across from me and always staring at me. Sometimes, they whittle, or mend clothes. Some clean their guns and knives, or polish shoes and saddles.

But all are ready to pounce if I so much as move.

This tells me that, while I was asleep, Dutch and Hosea told them my story; that I’m a Pinkerton, and that they need to decide what to do with me.

And that none of them trust me.

_I don’t blame them_.

John Marston, Jack’s pa and one of them men from the train, is currently in the chair, polishing a hunting knife and staring at me.

His bandanna had covered the haggard scars that stretch across his face. They’re still fresh, as there’s still stitches holding the healing flesh together. He’s also greasy and filthy, like he hasn’t bothered to wash since getting injured. He would be handsome if he took care of himself, and I notice a coffee-brown haired woman glancing over at him from camp every once in a while.

I ignore him the best I can, staring over the cliff, as usual. It’s not that I don’t like John; he seems intelligent, and is devoted to the camp, if not a little distant to his family. Jack has come over to try and talk to him, then me, several times, only to be hissed away by John.

Clearly, judging by his lack of self-care and distancing himself to his family, John loathes himself almost as much as I loathe myself.

Eventually, a blonde-haired woman approaches us to take over my guard shift. She settles into the chair, pulling out a scrap of clothing to mend, glaring at me as John walks back towards camp.

At this point, I stop bothering to get to know these people through observation alone. I am starting to lose hope that Dutch and Hosea will show me some mercy. They seemed sympathetic enough when I told them my story, but it’s been two days. Maybe they don’t have mercy within themselves.

I continue to watch the scenery over the cliff, seeing a doe and her fawn graze at the riverbank. The sun is scorching, and I can feel it sear my skin. With Dwight’s protectiveness of my body being pale and pure for the male targets, I rarely went out into the sun completely exposed as I am now. Always long sleeves and gloves, always a parasol.

I fucking hated it. It was more stifling than the sunburn I feel now.

At least the sun is warm.

After the blonde woman finishes her mending, she pulls out a revolver and a bottle of gun oil to clean it. Before she manages to begin, though, someone else is approaching my tree from camp.

“I’ll take over for dinner shift, Karen. Go spend some time with Sean.”

Arthur nods back towards camp, and Karen stands quickly, thanking him before trudging past me, kicking some dirt into my lap on her way back. Arthur turns his gaze toward me.

“I brought some stew. It’s a bit bland, but it’s hot and filling. Decent for food made outside of civilization.” He says this, dragging the chair closer to my tree.

“Do I get to feed myself today, Mr. Morgan?”

“Eh, probably not. ‘Fraid there’s strict orders not to untie you until a decision’s made,” he replies, settling down in the chair and preparing a spoonful.

“Oh, my bladder has made me fully aware of that fact. Just asking for a shred of dignity,” I reply, trying to not smell myself. He chuckles at this.

“You Pinkertons are always protectin’ your decency, but there ain’t no decency in the world,” he replies, bringing the spoon to my lips. “Least none I’ve seen.”

I accept the bite, chewing on the gamey meat. “I’m not a Pinkerton, as I have to remind you people. At least not anymore. And the only decency I want is to not have to piss on myself and maybe get to eat my one meal a day by myself, rather than having a grown man spoon-feed me.”

I say this with a wry tone, and Arthur raises an eyebrow, finally shrugging. “We all been in your position, Miss McCormack, so there ain’t no use in tryin’ to gain sympathy from us. We’re bad people, after all.”

I eat another offered spoonful, this one with a bit of carrot, and I chew gratefully on the food. It is completely tasteless, but does the job in filling me up.

“I’ll see what can be done about protectin’ you from the sun, though. No use to us fried to a crisp,” Arthur offers, holding a water skin to my cracked lips.

The water dribbles down my chin, landing on my exposed chest. Arthur’s eyes follow the droplets. They feel good against my inflamed flesh.

“Didn’t know that I was being useful to you all. Anyway, don’t bother. I’ve got a feeling I won’t be living much longer.”

My emotionless tone sets Arthur on edge, making him shift in the chair. “Nah, that ain’t gonna happen. Dutch and Hosea, they might be ruthless, but I don’t think they’d kill a woman with a sad story like yours. Least, not from the reaction they had to your story.”

Empty reassurances. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be glad if they end it. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier. Then, I don’t have to start over.”

“Ain’t no sense in that, but I’m not gonna try and change your mind,” Arthur replies, holding up the last spoonful of food to my lips. I chew the flavorless venison, swallow, and let my mind settle into numbness.

Arthur didn’t move the chair back to the tree, instead throwing the empty dish onto the ground and pulling a leather-bound journal out of his satchel. I watch a hawk dive to catch a fish in the river as I listen to the pencil scratch on the paper.

“Can I ask you a question, Miss McCormack?” Arthur asks suddenly, closing his journal on the pencil to save the page. I only reply by turning my head towards him. “How much of your story was the truth?”

I cock my head to the side. “All of it, like I promised. Why?”

“Well, seein’ as your career in the Pinkertons was fairly long, you likely developed some skill in lyin’,” he replies, his easy tone not fooling me.

“Truth be told, I am an excellent liar - but only when on the job. When I’m not trying to extract information or convincing someone to trust me, I’m a really terrible liar.” My mouth quirks up into a grin as he shakes his head.

“That makes no damn sense, Miss-“

“Please, for the love of everything, just call me Daisy. And it doesn’t have to, because it’s the truth. Think of it as my Irish Catholic heritage trying to keep me straight with the Lord.” The last bit comes out sarcastically.

He chuckles. “I ain’t never met a trustworthy Catholic.”

“Then you’ve never met a bad Catholic.”

This gets a legitimate laugh out of him, and I find myself drawn to his smile. He seems like a man who rarely smiles, so its really nice to see something like that on his face. His eyes crinkle up while he throws his head back, and under his beard I catch just a hint of dimples.

He’s attractive, for a grimy, sweaty cowboy.

_I clearly need some space from these people if I'm feeling this way._

_Anyway, its nice to make someone laugh again_.

He’s now shaking his head, pulling his journal up to his lap again to continue doing whatever he was doing. I stare back at the camp.

After observing these people for a few days, I have started begrudgingly respecting them. Even though they are making me pee where I sit and are allowing my arms to slowly leave their sockets from being tied behind me, they protect their own. Every time a member of the gang rides in from wherever they ventured off to, they all greet them in their time. The returning member nearly always brings something for the cook to add to the stew pot. The cook, whose name I’ve learned is Pearson, complains when people whine about camp, saying how the navy was worse, but always accepts their offerings. Plus, I think mentioning the Navy is his way of making this kind of life seem not quite so bad as it actually is.

And, while Dutch is the leader, he is not the center of the camp. That spot belongs to Jack, to whom every gang member seems to gravitate towards. Abigail is almost constantly at his side, but Hosea will occasionally pull Jack away for a reading lesson, or Javier, the Mexican man, will teach Jack the guitar at night. Everyone seems to dote on Jack, and it seems like having a child, an innocent soul, tends to make life a little easier.

But I didn’t have to have anyone tell me that. I learned that in New York with all the children the Pinkertons “took under their wing”. Besides, Jack is a sweet child, and the few interactions I've had with him tell me that all the attention he receives is well deserved.

And, overall, the gang members work incredibly hard to prevent the camp from falling apart. Sometimes too hard, as I’ve seen Miss Grimshaw take her frustrations out on some of the women, sometimes physically. She seems to be doing that with Mary-Beth right now, one of the younger, prettier women of the camp. She screeches at Mary-Beth for reading during dinner, instead of mending socks or whatever she was supposed to manage during the meal. Mary-Beth reluctantly puts the book down and grabs the needle, thread, and fabric from Miss Grimshaw, who stomps away towards her tent.

I don’t know how these women live with her being so harsh, so it must be a fact that Miss Grimshaw would kill for any one of these girls.

There’s also a lot of mixing of different races in this camp, which is strange for me. An African man and woman, a Mexican man, and another man whose race I cannot identify, with his West African face and straight black hair that is decidedly not African. That and a slew of European ethnicities which do _not_ mix well where I’m from in New York.

It’s honestly extremely refreshing to see so many different people interacting in a positive way, in a way that never happens on the East Coast, where most ethnic groups keep to themselves in their different boroughs.

An accepting group, who looks out for their own and are, collectively, as a group of twenty, raising a single child.

_But would they be accepting of me?_

My reverie is interrupted by Arthur clearing his throat, snapping his journal shut, and standing from his seat. “I’m gonna go see if Pearson’s got any bread left. Greedy bastard always stows the good stuff away,” he says, gruffly, turning towards camp and stuffing his journal into his satchel.

“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere,” I say sarcastically, Arthur turning and grinning at me.

_His smiles really are something._

_Get your head out of your ass_ , _Daisy._

I shake my head a bit, watching Arthur go and steal some bread from Pearson’s table, then striking up a conversation with Hosea. It has become mostly dark, and the other gang members have gathered around one of the fires in camp.

As I continue to watch the gang members, a knife finds its way to my throat.

“Don’t move, don’t fucking scream, or I’ll slice you like a ham,” a coarse voice whispers behind me, hot breath against my ear. I don’t move a fucking inch, not breathing at all.

I do use my ears. There’s at least five, possibly ten men hiding in the shrubs just beyond the trees around the camp. I can hear them rustle around as they work to surround the camp, to ambush the gang. As they get into position, one of them cocks a revolver, and I see Arthur stiffen, turning his head slightly to the side.

He makes a slight whistle and the camp immediately goes quiet, and all I can hear now is the continued rustling of the attackers around me and the crackling of the fire.

“Someone’s here-“

As Hosea says this, a man explodes from a bush on the other side of camp, yelling wildly and aiming his rifle at the group.

Arthur pulls a revolver out of his holster, shoots, hits the attacker.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

Men explode from the trees in every direction, taking the camp by surprise. I miscounted, seeing that there’s likely twenty men now sprinting towards the camp. I see nearly every gang member take up arms, grabbing every rifle, shotgun, or _meat cleaver_ within grabbing distance.

_Say what you will about Pearson; he’s got a wild side_.

As I think this, the knife pushes further into my throat. “Don’t make a move; wouldn’t want to interrupt this. Findin’ the fucking Van Der Lindes was a nice surprise at the end of a hunt, and I would hate to ruin it by spillin’ your pretty throat all over the ground.”

I swallow against the knife, brain spinning about how I’m going to get out of this one, when he presses his nose to my scalp, just behind my ear, and takes a massive sniff of my hair.

“You smell pretty, ain’t bad lookin’ neither. You’ll make a nice prize for Colm, make up for that botched train hold-up. 'Sides, he'll be interested in who the Van Der Lindes are holding prisoner.”

I start breathing heavily, but whether it’s from trying to get enough oxygen to put up a fight or from sheer panic, I’ll never know. He pulls his knife from my throat, where I can feel the blood drip down from the tiny incision, and uses it to cut the ties between my hands, freeing me. He grabs me from the front of my bodice, attempting to drag me away, likely to his horse, never to be seen again by the Van Der Linde gang.

I don’t give him the fucking chance.

My hand, still covered in thick rope, swings around to collide with the side of his face. My shoulder screams at the sudden extreme movement after being kept in the same position for days, but it does the trick. He’s caught off balance, holding the side of his face with his free hand after having let go of my dress.

I don’t let him react beyond that as I tackle him to the ground, straddling his hips as I strike him over and over with my still-bound fists. His face takes the force of my punches over and over again, in his jaw, eyes, cheekbones, temple, ear, teeth, _anywhere_ I can reach.

His nose splinters under my fist, then his cheekbones, then the actual _skin_ of his face begins to slough away as I keep hitting him. He’s unconscious, or more likely dead, before I realize that I’ve probably overdone it.

I stand suddenly, trying to get my bearings and an update of whatever is happening in the camp.

The gang members seem to be holding their own, if not driving off the attackers, even though they seem outnumbered slightly. The women have mostly grabbed guns to join the men, but I can’t spot a couple of members of the gang.

Until I hear Abigail’s scream.

“ _JACK! JACK! WHO SEES JACK?!”_ She screams, coming to the middle of the encounter, then is pushed away by John. She tries to ignore him, frantically looking around for her boy.

When I hear a tiny yell off to my left side.

“Momma!”

I whip my head around to see that one of the goons has taken Jack around the middle and is carrying him off. Jack is struggling within his hold, but he’s too small to do any real damage, and the man holding him is successfully ignoring his twisting body.

This is the part where I snap.

I begin to sprint towards them, blood dripping from my fists. I start undoing the rope around one of my hands as I careen towards Jack’s voice. I have no other weapons, so the rope will have to do.

Jack’s small whines as he tries to get away only fuel my rage as I close in on the man holding him. When I’m close enough, I launch myself at his back, taking him by surprise and knocking Jack out of his clutches.

“JACK! RUN!” I scream, rolling around with the man on the ground, trying to get the upper hand. In all of this, I manage to hear Jack’s small footsteps run back towards the camp, choking sobs coming out of his mouth.

The child being so terrified makes me see more red, and I roll to get behind the attacker, to a position where he’s laying on top of me, his back to my front.

I then wrap the rope I have around his neck, and start to _pull_.

His hands go to the rope, trying to get some kind of leverage, but I just pull and pull and pull some more, muscles straining under his body. He then tries to reach my face with his hands, but the rope tightens when his hands leave it, so he goes back to trying to wrench the rope from his neck.

I feel the skin on my fingers and palms start to rip from straining against the rough rope, but still I pull the rope tighter around his neck. His legs begin to kick from a lack of oxygen, but I wrap my feet around his thighs, keeping is lower body still.

Amazingly, he’s still fighting, grunting as he tries to roll off me, but I use all my strength to wrench him back, squeezing and squeezing the rope. My teeth are clenched to the point where they feel like they might shatter, but I never loosen my strength. Never let go of the rope that is strangling the life out of this man’s body.

I don’t know how long I’m pulling the rope, but eventually my muffled screaming draws the gang members over, running towards our struggle. They make a small crowd around us, guns pointing at us.

Hosea steps forward, kneeling beside our struggling bodies. “Daisy, that’s enough. I think ya got him.”

He lays a hand on my bloody arm, and I release all the strength in my arms, gasping for air. I think I held my breath the entire time I was strangling the man.

Hosea and Arthur push the man’s body off me, and I try to crawl away from him, but Javier stops me with a hand to my shoulder. “It’s over, _amiga_. Breathe, just breathe.”

I flip over to my back, still trying to get control of my spasming lungs. Realizing too late that I’m actually sobbing.

I catch my breath enough to ask the group, “Wh-where’s Jack? Is… is he safe?”

They turn to look at each other, not knowing how to react to the prisoner they’d been keeping for days demanding to know the well-being of their son.

“Jack’s safe, with his mother,” Dutch calls from behind the group, joining the crowd for the first time. “Lenny, Charles, Arthur, go make sure none of them got away. I think they found us by accident, so let’s make sure none can bring the news back to their camp.”

The three men nod, immediately standing from where they were crouched around me to follow their orders. Arthur turns slightly to look at me again before stamping off after the two other men.

“Bill, Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, let’s get this camp cleaned up. Find a place to dump the bodies far from this place. I don’t want any fucking reminders of tonight anytime soon.”

The three of them nod, standing to go get to work. Dutch crouches beside me, across from Hosea. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say, Miss McCormack, besides thank you. We all owe you a debt for saving little Jack’s life. We didn’t even know where he was until it was too late, and we have you to thank for him not being lost, possibly forever.”

I’m still breathing heavily, chest heaving, face wet from sweat and tears, but I manage to catch enough breath to talk. “Pl-Please, Dutch, i-it’s Daisy,” I say, smirking at him. “And it was my genuine pleasure to get the boy. Those men where going to take me, too. Said something about a 'Colm'.”

“Ah, figured these morons were O’Driscolls,” Hosea says, finally speaking from my other side.

He and Dutch make eye contact across me, having a silent conversation. Then, Dutch finally speaks up.

“Karen, would you be so kind and take Daisy here so you and Mary-Beth can get her cleaned up?"

* * *

 

The women got one whiff of my horrible scent and ended up giving me an entire bath.

I guess that’s what happens when you have to pee where you sit for two days.

Mary-Beth and Karen scrubbed me down by the river, in a tub barely bigger than a bucket, but it was the most wonderful bath I have ever had. They chatted to each other above me, still slightly wary of me, but clearly infinitely more relaxed.

The scary Pinkerton lady is not so intimidating, sitting naked and filthy in a bucket.

After I’m cleaner, they work on my hands and wrists. They rub a poultice on my shredded palms and fingers, wrapping them with clean linens. My wrists were raw and bruised, but really didn’t need anything but time to heal.

Then, Karen handed me a bundle of her clothes _. I’m closer to her size than Mary-Beth, so magenta skirt it is, I suppose._

“Why don’t you sleep in Miss Grimshaw’s tent, Miss McCormack? It’ll be on the ground, but its better than sleeping tied to a tree,” Mary-Beth suggested, guiding me towards the matriarch’s tent.

“Honestly, sleeping on razorblades might be better than trying to sleep against that tree. I appreciate it, Miss Gaskill,” I say earnestly.

“Please, it’s Mary-Beth. My mother was Gaskill, and I don’t ever wanna remember that bitch.”

“Then let’s make it even. Call me Daisy.”

She gives me a shy smile and leaves me by Miss Grimshaw’s space. “Okay, Daisy.”

She walks away a little awkwardly, but I don’t blame her. Knowing what she knows about me, I’d be awkward around me as well.

I lay down on the extra bedroll, barely even caring that there’s no pillow, and fall asleep before my head hits the ground.

Vaguely, I remember Miss Grimshaw talking to the other members of the gang outside the tent, shooing them off before entering and going to sleep on the cot.

I remember being glad that this woman, who hated me so fiercely when I came to camp, doesn’t stab me in the back while I sleep.

* * *

 

I wake up with the sun high in the sky. I must have slept for twice as long as I normally do.

I look over to the cot, but see that Miss Grimshaw is already up and about. Not that I’m surprised, given how long I must have slept.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes, trying to decide what to do next. Because I literally have no idea what is going to happen when I step outside this tent.

Am I still the enemy to these people? Are they going to forget last night and turn on me the minute they see me unbound? Or will they remember that I saved Jack? _Or_ will they be disgusted that I killed two men? There is literally no way to know how they will react to me.

Well, there’s one way. I just don’t want to go out yet.

But, my stomach clenches and makes a gurgling noise. I am absolutely starving.

And, clearly, my stomach is braver than the rest of me.

I push myself up, but immediately fall back down with a hiss. My hands feel like they’re on fire, and the pressure I put on them was excruciating. When I look down at them, I see that dark blood has soaked much of the bandages on my palms. I gently touch them with my fingertips to find them dry. At least I stopped bleeding. 

All the same, I have to wiggle to stand up without using my hands.

I make my way out of the tent warily, looking around and taking inventory of who is still here. Dutch is reading outside his tent, with a beautiful red-headed woman on the inside. Hosea and the straight-haired man, who I’m assuming is Charles, are sitting on logs around one of the fires, talking softly. I hear a knife hit a chopping block, and I turn to see Pearson cutting hunks of meat off a haunch of deer. Most of the other members of the gang are either off on the outskirts of camp, taking care of chores, or seem to be off completing tasks outside of camp.

I take a step out of the tent, and no one moves towards me with weapons or rope to tie me up. I take another step, and Dutch glances up at my movement.

“Ah, she’s awake!” he exclaims, snapping his book shut and walking over to me. “How are you feelin’, Miss Daisy?”

“Uhm, awake. And my hands don’t feel good, but I’m not surprised by that.”

“Yeah, I expected that. But, I’m glad to see you lookin’ better and cleaned up. Let’s get you some food, and we need to talk.”

He guides me to another campfire, this time with another pot of tasteless stew keeping warm over it. I’m more interested in the metal pot full of what smells like coffee next to it.

Dutch grabs a bowl but notices my stare. “Hosea, could you grab Miss Daisy some coffee and join us? We need to have some words.”

Hosea pats Charles on the arm and stands to join us. I begin to scarf down the stew, thankful for anything to fill my stomach, and Hosea eventually joins us with the promised coffee.

That, though, I need to savor.

They watch me silently eat, probably wondering how an East Coast lady can put down so much stew with so little manners, but I’m so hungry that I don’t even care. When I finish and begin to nurse my coffee mug, Dutch clears his throat.

“Now, we need to speak on our next steps. Hosea and I have taken a long time to think. Honestly, probably too long.”

They share a glance; this time Hosea speaks up.

“Daisy, we need to know what your plans are next. We owe you for your actions to save Jack, but we don’t know what we owe you. What can we do to repay your kindness?”

I hold the metal cup with both bandaged hands, bringing it to my lips and sipping on the hot liquid. Its strong, and surprisingly good without any sugar or milk. It almost immediately begins to melt away my headache and lingering exhaustion.

“To be honest, besides going west, I had zero plans,” I reply, glancing back up at the two men paying close attention to my words. “I think my intention was to buy a house or some land, whichever sounded better at the time, and live the rest of my days as alone as I could be. I just wanted to start over, no matter what I ended up doing.”

Dutch sits up a bit, then asks, “If you wanted to start over so bad, why did you still carry your badge? Clearly, you want nothing more to do with the Pinkertons.”

I think on this for a while. That badge had granted me safety at many twists and turns within my career, so maybe it still gave me a little peace of mind. Even if it did represent one of the worst things I ever did with my life. Dutch is right to be wary if it, though; I would be too, were I in his position.

“Honestly, having that badge opens a lot of doors. People respect me more with it than without it, being a woman and all. Plus, there’s the intimidation factor,” I say with a slight smile. Hosea chuckles a bit. “But more than anything, I felt safer with it. I used that thing to get out of so many rough situations that I figured having it couldn’t hurt me. That is, until I ran into all of you.”

Dutch nods in agreement, believing the truth that I am saying. “That still doesn’t answer what we can do to repay you. Jack is like a son, not just to Abigail and John, obviously, but to all of us.”

“Jack is an incredibly special kid, and it was my honor to help him last night,” I say earnestly, making eye contact with Dutch. “I am owed nothing for what I did.”

“All the same, Miss Daisy. We do not let debts go unsettled, no matter what for.”

I think on it for a bit. I have grown to respect this ragtag group of outlaws, despite being tied up and kept prisoner by them for days. They work hard for each other, and although they might question each other, they never lose faith.

This might have been the kind of group I would not mind around me, had I made it any further west than I did. Loyal, hardworking, honest people; if only to each other.

“I guess there is something,” I finally say, getting the attention from Dutch and Hosea once more. They lean forward, ready to hear whatever they might have to do for me. “Since I really don’t know where to go from here, let me stay with you all for a while. Until I get my feet under me.”

Dutch and Hosea immediately look towards each other, having a silent conversation that seems typical between the two older men. Feeling a rejection coming, I immediately get into “convincing” mode.

“I can pull my own weight; help with chores, buy my own supplies as soon as I get money. I can even help with jobs and such if you need me,” I insist, sounding a bit desperate. But this is the first good, solid plan I’ve had since the decision to flee the Agency.

I open my mouth to speak again, but Dutch holds up a hand, silently asking me to wait. Hosea nods slightly, and they both turn back towards me.

“Well, my dear, I can honestly say we were both hoping you’d say that,” Hosea says with a genuine smile, causing me to grin back at him.

“Welcome to the Van Der Linde gang, Miss Daisy,” Dutch says, clutching my bandaged hand and shaking it.  


	5. to show you all something someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy feels entirely inadequate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away from me a bit... but I still love it! 
> 
> I am taking some liberties with this chapter, like not completely being historically accurate. I'm usually a huge stickler about this, but most of Red Dead Redemption 2 is not super accurate. The Old West was much more boring than people realize, so I don't blame them for wanting to spice things up a bit. 
> 
> Also, there's some period typical misogyny here, mostly Daisy on herself but some of the other characters with Daisy as well. 
> 
> Daisy sings at one point in this chapter. Here's the song for reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIgSH9TIxTI  
> I would be super awesome and provide a link within the chapter, but I'm not super awesome and cannot figure out how to do that.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Dutch asked some of the gang members to run into town to purchase some supplies, and told them to bring me with them to get some new things. He gave me a bundle of cash to use for new clothing, a bedroll and blankets of my own, as well as other things I may need. Tilly, the beautiful black woman I noticed during my imprisonment, Sean, a loudmouthed Irishman, and Bill ended up taking me.

Bill is still cold towards me, but at least no longer outright aggressive. While he was silent and brooding for most of the trip, Sean couldn’t seem to stop talking about anything and everything. I decided that I really like Sean, even if he annoys the hell out of me. He is unapologetically himself, which is something I haven’t ever had the chance to be. Plus, he’s so overtly Irish that it reminds me of my childhood. Tilly and I kept our conversations with Sean light, mostly laughing at the sheer amount he was able to babble without taking a breath.

I ended up getting clothes for warm and cold weather, including some trousers that I had seen some women around camp wearing. Skirts and dresses really aren’t made for horse riding, and even though I have never ridden a horse, I could see it in my near future. And, with my new life starting, I figure that I may as well try a lot of new things, including wearing clothing that would be practical in a fight. I purchased a satchel like Arthur’s, as well as some emergency food supplies, needles and thread, and some knives. I also got some extra bandages for my hands, a journal, charcoal pencil, and a copy of _The Last of the Mohicans_. I finished _The Deerslayer_ before leaving New York and had not thought of bringing its sequel with the rest of my things.

When we returned to camp, gang members gathered around to help unload the wagon, but shooed me away when I tried to help. My hands, still bandaged up, wouldn’t be of much use with unpacking the supplies.

So, after I dump my own belongings in Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth’s tent (cramped, but Miss Grimshaw needs her own space. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself), I begin to go through my travel sack that was taken from me when I was brought to camp.

The extra clothing goes into one pile, to be laundered later, and sorted through for practicality. I’m sure that my heels and sequined bags will sell in town, and I won’t have any use for them in camp. The simpler items, as well as some of the nicer dresses, I keep, in case I need to run a con for a job.

Which I really hope Dutch will not make me do.

But, if that’s what it takes for me to stay, then that’s what I’ll do.

I also toss the perfumes to the side, opting to keep my favorite. The hats also go in the toss pile. The bottom of my bag is littered with more knives. They were always my preferred mode of self-defense, and I’ve accumulated many of different sizes and purposes over the years. My favorite hunting knife sits on top of a pile of throwing knives, and a bigger dagger lays on the bottom.

“Impressive. I’ve never seen a lady with so many knives,” a cool voice drawls from the entrance of the tent.

My head whips around to find Charles standing there, straight backed with guns strapped to his side. His hands are clasped in front of him.

I wonder if he has ever relaxed in his entire life.

“Well, I guess you’ve never seen a lady like me,” I reply with fake easiness. Charles is intense, and probably not one to bullshit.

He chuckles all the same, stepping a bit further into the tent. I stand, wiping my bandaged hands on my new skirt.

“Well, all the same, Dutch and Hosea want to see what you can do,” he says. “Holding up Arthur ain’t a small feat, let alone by a woman. Not to mention whatever training you must have gotten with the Pinkertons. You’re to come with me and show us your skills with a gun.”

I point at my knives and raise a brow at him. He shrugs.

“All the same, they said guns, not knives. Let’s go.”

Charles turns and leaves the tent. I quickly braid my hair into a pleat down to the middle of my back, tying it with a small strip of leather. I slip on my new boots and follow Charles out of the tent.

He’s standing by the horses with Hosea and Arthur. As I approach, the latter two men raise their gazes towards me.

“You’re looking better,” Hosea remarks as a greeting, and I give him a small grin.

“A bath can do a lot, and new clothes even more. I feel better as well,” I return, and Hosea nods.

“That’s good to hear, my dear. The plan is to take you a couple of miles out of camp, where the gunshots won’t lead any curious travelers here, and set up some targets. Just to see what you can do,” he adds, gesturing to a bag that Arthur holds over one shoulder. It clinks slightly, telling me it’s full of empty bottles.

“I’m not much with a gun, Mr. Matthews, but I’ll oblige,” I reply, shrugging a bit.

“Well, you could be of some use on a job in the future, and we can always use more help in that area,” Hosea says, turning towards his horse. “You can ride with Arthur. Charles, you scout ahead, make sure we don’t have any surprises.”

Charles nods, mounts up, and rides off. Arthur straps the bottles to the back of Hosea’s saddle, and mounts his own horse. When he holds a hand down to help me onto the horse, I hesitate.

“I, uh…” I say, trailing off. He raises an eyebrow.

“Something wrong, Miss Daisy?” he asks with his low drawl.

_How fucking embarrassing is it that I’ve never ridden a horse._

I blush furiously. “I’ve never ridden a horse, Mr. Morgan.”

He looks at me as if I’ve spoken a foreign language. “What kind of person ain’t never ridden a horse before?” He says this with all the incredulity in the world. Hosea’s already ridden off, leaving the two of us alone.

“I grew up in a big city, where I either ran the streets, not being able to afford a horse, or was paraded around as a pretend lady, in a carriage. So no, I _ain’t never ridden a horse before_ ,” I shoot back, impersonating his gravelly voice.

His eyes soften at my defensive tone. “No, ‘course not. Here,” he says in a low voice, climbing out of the saddle and standing in front of me. “I’ll help you up. You’ll ride behind me. Squeeze the horse with your legs, and hold on to either me or the back of the saddle. We’ll go slowly,” he promises, holding his hands out to help me up.

I put mine on his shoulders, and he easily hoists me behind the saddle onto the horse’s behind. I turn to face forward slowly, trying hard to not lose my balance. When I’m as settled as I can be, he remounts his horse, grabs the reins, looks back to make sure I’m okay, and then whistles for the horse to move.

Powerful muscles move beneath me. I squeeze my legs around the horse as it finally moves forward. Arthur steers it out of camp into the surrounding woods.

If I’m being honest, no part of the ride is comfortable for me. My legs burn from squeezing the horse, and when Arthur kicks the horse into a trot and then a gallop, the bouncing movements make me feel like I’m going to fall off the back of the horse. I desperately wrap my arms around Arthur, holding on for dear life, only to feel him rumble with laughter.

I scowl at his mirth, but hang on nonetheless. _We’ll go slowly, my ass._

We ride like this for about half an hour, and at one point I manage to get used to the pace. I open my eyes and see the vast landscape pass by us, with towering cliffs and mountains off in the distance. There’s smoke from the occasional campfire, and sometimes there’s a rider or a wagon travelling the road, but for the most part we’re alone out here.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Arthur asks from in front. He looks at me from under his hat, still clinging to his back.

“M’fine,” I lie, and he chuckles, likely calling my bluff.

“You’ll get used to it. Don’t take much to ride a trained horse, so you’ll settle in,” he replies, looking forward once again. I really hope he’s right.

Eventually, we make it to the meeting point. Hosea and Charles have already set up the targets and are patiently waiting for our arrival. Arthur gets off the saddle, then holds his hands up to guide me down.

I land with his assistance, then walk gingerly towards Hosea, trying to stretch my tight muscles as I go.

“Not used to riding, I see,” Hosea remarks, glancing at my stiff form.

I simply shake my head in reply.

“Well, that’s how things are done around here. I guess we’ll add riding lessons to whatever other things you’ll need to know,” he says casually, pulling a small revolver from his hip holster and handing it to me.

I grab the gun clumsily in my hand, heavy and cold in my bandaged palm. Apparently, something in my eyes has the three men laughing at me.

“What?” I demand, looking up at them, already in a sour mood.

“You’re starin’ at it like it’s a piece of horse dung,” Arthur says, mirth glimmering in his eyes. I scowl a little more.

“I never really shot guns at the Agency, because they gave up on me as soon as I tried,” I replied, answering their silent question. “I really hate guns, and never got the hang of them.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s what we’re here for,” Hosea adds, taking a step back. “Now, we’ve got about ten targets over there against the fence. Aim for any one of them.”

I pull the hammer of the gun with my left hand, holding it up to aim with my right. I squint down the sight, eventually just closing one eye. Deciding to start with the left most glass, I fire.

I miss completely, hitting the dusty ground behind the fence and causing an explosion of earth.

“That’s alright, just try again,” Hosea drawls patiently.

I shoot and miss again, this time to the other side. I huff out a sharp breath, irritated at my incompetence. I’m tempted to blame my horrific aim on the bandages covering my wounds.

“Try to relax your shoulders, and don’t close your eyes when you aim,” Charles pipes up, scratching his chin.

“An’ take a deep breath before you aim, exhalin’ before you fire,” Arthur adds. Hosea nods at their suggestions.

I sigh again, and follow their advice.

_Relaxed shoulders, deep breath_. I open both of my eyes, exhale, then pull the trigger.

Another miss, this time hitting the fence post about a foot below the bottle.

“This isn’t working,” I exclaim impatiently. I look over at the three men. “If I couldn’t get the hang of this before, there’s no way I’ll get it now!”

“It’s all about practice, Miss Daisy,” Arthur drawls, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt.

Where his hunting knife hangs next to his own revolver.

“I do know something else,” I try, gesturing towards Arthur, looking down at his knife. “May I?”

He follows my gaze to his knife, then palms the handle. “This?”

At my nod, he unsheathes it and hands it to me, taking the gun.

I start to assess the balance of the blade and the handle, holding it this way and that. Its balance is fairly even, despite all of the leather and decoration Arthur has added on the handle. It’s still uneven, but I can work with this. The blade has an asymmetrical edge that is typical in hunting knives, but it is as sharp as anything I’ve seen, cutting my thumb a bit as I test the edge.

Knowing this, I opt for an underhand throw with no spin, which would just make the uneven balance work against me. My hands, damaged as they are, shouldn’t affect how I throw the knife too much.

I look back at the three men again, all confused but anticipating my next move. I smirk again, then let the knife loose in my trained underhand throw.

It shatters the glass, imbedding itself in the tree behind the fence. Exhaling, I look back again.

Arthur’s mouth is hanging open in disbelief, and Hosea is chuckling and shaking his head. Charles just scratches his chin again.

“If you could do that with a hunting knife, what’ll you do with these?” Charles asks, taking a bundle of throwing knives out of his pack.

I smile widely, and see Arthur snap his mouth shut and gulp. “Oh, you don’t even know.”

I end up shattering another glass from double the distance, this time with a spinning overhand throw. It flies in a straight line, spinning over itself, easily shattering the bottle.

I then shatter two bottles at once with a technique I was working on before I left the Agency, throwing two knives in the same hand. I slightly miscalculate the spin, but the handle of one of the knives takes out its bottle all the same.

Before I can throw a fourth knife, a spinning object shoots into my vision from the left, smashing a glass and imbedding itself in the fencepost.

A tomahawk, with a heavy wooden handle and a feather tied just under the ax head.

I turn to find Charles recovering from a throw, smiling over at me with his own cocky grin. I return his smile.

“Well, ma’am, you are damn fine with a blade,” Hosea says softly, walking to the targets to recover our throwing items, “of that I no longer have a doubt.”

“Thanks, Hosea,” I reply bashfully, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was never really good at any shooting, but this I could definitely do.”

He hands the knives and tomahawk back to Charles, and slips Arthur his hunting knife as well. “And I’m sure it got you out of plenty awful scrapes back in New York. It’s great for close combat, fighting of people rushing towards you-“

“But out here, in the open country,” Charles butts in, rewrapping his tomahawk and hanging it from his belt, “that rarely happens. Throwing knives and tomahawks are handy, but you don’t bring a knife to a shootout.”

He says this gravely, eyeing me again. Hosea nods in agreement. “It really wouldn’t hurt to at least learn to shoot, Daisy. Let’s give it another try.”

I scowl again, but nod in acquiescence.

“We’re not saying you ain’t deadly; those two O’Driscolls were definitely proof of that,” Hosea adds, trying to get me to understand. “But the more you learn, the more you can protect yourself and others. And what Charles said is true; guns rule out here. Arthur?”

I glance at the bigger man to see that he is still staring at me, but shakes himself out of it with the mention of his name. “Yeah?”

“Would you mind showing Daisy?”

_Show me what?_

He nods, then, before I can even blink, he’s fired three shots from the hip with Hosea’s revolver he still held, shattering three more of the targets in barely a split second.

It’s my turn to be flabbergasted, and I turn towards Arthur, mouth hanging open in amazement. He smiles widely at my no doubt ridiculous expression, handing the gun handle-first back to Hosea.

“How did you-“ I start to ask, and Arthur smiles even more, blushing slightly.

“Had twenty years of practice. Plenty a’ time to get my aim right. ‘Sides, that ain’t nothin’.”

“Arthur,” Hosea admonishes, making Arthur hang his head to the ground. “Get it through your bull head that you’re the best shot we’ve got.”

“Micah-“

“Micah’s never around, and may be almost as good as you, but he doesn’t have the sense to hold his fire on occasion,” Hosea interrupts Arthur’s protest.

Arthur doesn’t try to speak up again, but simply examines his boots a little more. Clearly, Arthur isn’t used to compliments, possibly even thinking pretty lowly of himself.

“You may not think so, Mr. Morgan, but that was incredible. Astonishing. I’ve seen a lot in my life, but no one has ever been so quick as that,” I say, attempting to get him to pull his head out of his ass.

He glances up at me, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Think so?” he says quietly.

“Know so,” I reply, and he smiles even more, blue eyes glinting with the lines around his eyes crinkling up.

I decide it then: Arthur Morgan is an incredibly attractive man. Broad of shoulder with years of hard work built into muscle, with narrow hips and long, bowed legs. His face, though surely fearsome when in a foul mood, betrays a kindness right about now, making his features and beautiful blue eyes all the more dazzling.

_He probably doesn’t even acknowledge how attractive he is. A shame._  

Hosea coughs slightly as he reloads the revolver, shaking me out of my reverie. Arthur seems to gain composure again, standing up straight once more.

“Right,” Hosea says, handing the gun back to me as the blush fades from my cheeks, “let’s try this again.”

* * *

 

Under the steady patience and teachings of the three men, I’m able to shatter the last of the bottles with the gun, able to complete the task without needing to reload the gun.

It’s a start, but I still despise guns.

Charles and Hosea pack up their belongings and begin to ride back to camp as Arthur once more helps me onto the horse.

“I can honestly say I ain’t never seen anyone throw two knives like that before,” he remarks, checking the straps of the saddle.

I smile a bit at his admiration. “That was something I was working on before I left the Agency, and eventually New York. It’s not too complicated to learn, as long as you’ve already mastered throwing one at a time,” I reply casually.

He chuckles at that. “Yeah, _only_ mastering that. Like it wouldn’t take an eternity.”

“Likely not as long as it took to learn to shoot like that. Really, that was remarkable. If I could shoot like that-“

“Then learn how. I’ll teach ya,” Arthur offers, looking up at me suddenly. He pauses for a bit, then adds, “In exchange of teachin’ me some of your knife skills.”

He says this with genuine interest, eyes sparkling with intensity again. I fiddle a bit with my hands, thinking over his offer.

It would certainly be useful to learn some gun skills. I’ve resisted it for a long time, but if what Hosea and Charles says is true, then learning will be essential to survival in the west.

And honestly, it couldn’t hurt to know in a pinch.

Plus, if I get anywhere close to what Arthur can do, I’d be unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. Anyone would be.

I bite my lower lip, holding out my hand to the man. “Add horse riding lessons and you’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Morgan.”

He stares at my hand for a bit, then takes it with his own. The callouses on his fingers and palm catch a bit on the bandages still wrapped on my hands, but his grip is warm and firm. I blush a bit as I notice how large his hands are.

“Then it’s a deal, Miss Daisy,” he says, smiling up at me.

I return his grin.

* * *

 

After mounting up once more, he steers his horse around and we begin the ride back towards camp.

While still completely incompetent on the back of the horse, I’ve gained some confidence after today. I can feel the horse’s muscles move beneath me, powerful and ready to be unleashed. While not the biggest horse, it still stands far above the ground, one of the taller beasts in the camp.

If I’m going to be riding horses more often, I should learn more about them as a species, as well. More so than I’ve seen in books, anyway.

“What’s your horse’s name?” I ask suddenly, breaking the silence between us. Arthur turns his head back towards me, but seems embarrassed for a moment before telling me.

“It’s, uhm, it’s Penthesilea,” Arthur mumbles, shocking me completely. “Mostly, I call her Laya, though, seein’ as it’s a mouthful.”

I shake my head a bit, still flabbergasted, before answering, “I’m going to be honest. I did not see you as a student of the classics, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckles a bit at that, shaking off a bit of the embarrassment. “Well, I ain’t much of one, only read a couple. Herodotus’s always my favorite, and I loved hearin’ bout the warriors of old,” he says, surprising me more. He pronounces the historian’s name completely wrong, Hero-Doe-Tus, but I’m shocked that he even knows who that is.

“I’ve always favored him as well. Homer, too. The orphanage I grew up in had an ancient copy of _The Odyssey_ , which I read over and over again when I was little. Probably where I got my delusions of grandeur, and terrible luck, from,” I say wryly, feeling Arthur huff with laughter in front of me.

“That’s a good-un, to be sure. Had a horse a couple of weeks ago, by the name of Boadicea, but she keeled over during a snow storm. She was a good horse, but this one ain’t provin’ to be bad yet.”

He pats Laya on the neck, who nickers agreeably to his attentions. I can tell that Arthur has much experience with horses, and that they easily take a shining to him. _I don’t blame them_.

“Got another one, too, that Hosea wanted me to trade in for cash to a seller who was lookin’ for a work horse. Didn’t have the heart to make the sale, though. He’s a stubborn bastard, mean as the day’s long, so I keep him stabled up in Valentine.”

“Why not ride him, then? Not that anything is wrong with Penthesilea,” I add hastily, trying not to offend him.

“You’d understand if you saw him, Miss Daisy. He’s likely the biggest horse you’ll lay eyes on, and has a nasty personality to match. I keep meanin’ to get him out, get to know him better, but he’s a bit slow movin’ for my tastes. ‘Sides, Laya’s a good girl, and quick as a whip.” He leans down over Laya’s neck to feed her an apple, the horse chewing on the food gratefully.

“Have you named him yet?” I ask, leaning around to get a better look at his face.

He turns slightly again, making eye contact with me. “Nah, not just yet. I like to get to know a horse better ‘fore I go off givin’ it a name that don’t fit. Didn’t name Penthesilea ‘fore I saw her kick a wolf square in the face, so the name fits.”

I whistled a bit, impressed with her. “Good horse. I can see why you like her.”

“Yeah, she’s put up with me so far, strappin’ kills to her back and runnin’ through rough terrain, so that’s all I can hope for,” he says humbly, turning back to face forward.

I glance out to the sides again, viewing the vast landscape once more. West Elizabeth sure is something, with varied terrain as far as the eye can see. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

“Speakin’ of hunting, you mind if we stop off here a for a bit? Pearson’s been buggin’ us about bringin’ back some kills for food, and there’s fresh tracks here,” Arthur asks suddenly, pointing off to the other side of the road.

I shrug at his request. “I don’t mind. Not like I have much to do back at camp, with my hands as they are. I don’t think I’ll be much help, though, seeing as I’ve never hunted before.”

“Wasn’t expectin’ you to do much work. Pearson’s going to take care of whatever we bring, we just have to get it there.”

He dismounts Laya, grabbing his bow from the saddle. I stare at the carved wood of the weapon in disbelief.

“You’re going to use _that?_ ”

Arthur looks back up at me, squinting in the sunlight. “Yeah, it’s not actually all that bad. Used a varmint rifle before, but it gets too messy and bullets are hard to dig out. Charles’ an expert and gave me this to try, and I ain’t gone back since.” He says this as he pulls a couple of arrows out of a quiver on the saddle. “You comin’?”

I nod, but I’m not sure how to get down on my own, so I slip off the back of the horse, hitting the ground hard. I use my bandaged hand to push myself up to sit, back seizing from the fall. Arthur starts laughing hysterically above me.

I get to my feet again, a furious blush blooming on my face. “Alright, alright! This makes twice I’ve ridden a horse; to and from camp just now. It’s a learning process!” I say with indignation, Arthur still laughing and wiping his eyes.

“Nah, Daisy, I know. It’s jus’ funny to see a prim and proper lady fall off the butt of a horse like a newborn calf or somethin’,” he says, struggling to catch his breath between laughter.

I can feel my temper rising in my chest, angry, embarrassed tears flooding my eyes, and I stalk off towards the tracks he was talking about.

“Prim and proper fucking lady,” I mumble, kicking a stone in my path. Arthur catches up to me, still giggling under his breath.

The tracks, which seem to be either pronghorn or deer by the hoof marks, lead off to the west, close to a cliff looking down on a river. Still embarrassed, I turn to Arthur.

“They’re leading to the river, and seem to be kind of old, but we can work with these.”

With a bit of a smile still on his face, he looks down at me under the rim of his hat. “I’m impressed, Miss Daisy. How’d you learn trackin’?”

“I haven’t learned tracking. I notice things, remember? Besides, they’re big fucking hoofprints, they’d be hard to miss.”

“You’d be surprised. You ain’t never been hunting with Sean or Lenny. Or hell, even Bill,” he says, crouching down in front of the tracks. “They couldn’t track game if it was dancin’ in front of them.”

He whistles for Laya, who begins to follow us, and we start down the path. As we get closer to the river, he crouches and begins to move through the brush, motioning for me to do the same. I do, but my skirt keeps catching on the branches and thorns. I curse softly, pulling the skirt around my thighs to move more smoothly.

Arthur is able to move completely silently, barely making a sound through the terrain, while every step I take is pronounced by twigs snapping beneath my boots or the crunching of dirt. Even my hair makes noise, getting caught in branches and pulling out of its plait. He seems to tense with every noise I make, but has the courtesy to not say anything.

We spot the animals grazing on the riverbank. Four or five pronghorns drink water, ears flicking to quell the assault of flies around them. There are even more tracks along the sides of the river, so this must be a common watering spot for a lot of fauna. Arthur stops in front of me, and I follow suit.

He turns towards me, nocking an arrow. “Now, I’m goin’ to whistle to get them to lift their heads for a clean shot, but then they’ll be on high alert. Don’t move, or they’ll bolt.”

He says this at barely a whisper, but I nod at his instructions, eager to see how skilled Arthur is with a bow. I’ve only read about bow hunting in books, and I want to see how Arthur stacks up against the likes of Natty Bumppo or Davy Crocket, or any of the hundreds of Native American folk heroes.  

He whistles softly, and the pronghorns raise their heads, flicking their ears towards us. He draws the bow, aiming carefully towards them.

I step forward a bit to get a better view, but a branch snaps beneath my boot.

The pronghorns bolt, galloping in all directions, leaving a trail of dust by the river.

Arthur loosens the bow, drawing the arrow back in, and whips his head back at me. He looks annoyed, even angry.

“Watch where you step! ‘Sides, I thought I told you not to move!”

“I couldn’t see around your _big head_ , so-“

“So you found the biggest piece of wood to snap, is that it?!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Clumsy fool, now we gotta track ‘em all over again!”

I bristle at the insult, puffing my chest out a bit.

“Well, it’s not like you helped me at all! I was just following you, like you said, but you didn’t give me any more _instruction_ -“

“It don’t take a genius to figure out you have to be _quiet_ while hunting _wild animals_!”

“Don’t treat me like a fool, Arthur Morgan! You asked me to come, so here I am!” I could feel my breathing get faster, creeping towards him as we continue to yell at each other.

“Then go back to Laya and wait!”

I shrink away at being sent off, but I’m too angry to be around Arthur right now. “Fucking fine. There’s a doe and her fawn down the river. Tracks are right over there. I’ll be waiting like some god damn milkmaid.” I stand and storm off, kicking rocks and branches as I go back to the horse.

I hope the noise I’m making sets off every animal within five miles of us.

When I reach Laya and grab her reins, I turn to see that Arthur has stalked off to follow the tracks I’ve pointed out. I lead Laya along, who nickers at me.

“I haven’t got food for you, your bullheaded rider has all of it. You just have to wait,” I spat at her, bringing her to the river to drink while we wait for Arthur to show us how _much of a fucking man he is_.

As Laya drinks, my mood gets more sour as I marinate over our argument.

When in the hell am I going to be taken seriously? God, being born a woman is a curse. The men around me always think I’m too delicate or too stupid to understand anything. With the Agency, it was my being a woman that prevented me from getting any real, serious assignments that could do actual good for the world.

Instead, Dwight and Colin dolled me up and whored me out for information. They ruined me _forever_ and never even had the decency to try and let me be better.

My resolve to be angry breaks and my throat closes up. I feel tears streaking down my cheeks, and my chest aches with the need to sob, but I hold it in.

Why in the hell did I think that running away would make my life anything better? Whether its in the big city or on the frontier, men will always be the same, and will always treat me the same. Either as some dumb animal, delicate flower, or a convenient hole to stick their cocks in. Why would leaving New York make that any different? _I’m such a fucking fool to think differently_.

I feel a brush on my shoulder, and whip around, expecting Arthur to be behind me. Ready to slap him for making me feel this way again.

But its just Laya, prodding my shoulder with her nose. Her rueful eyes gaze into mine, and I see a rough intelligence there. She almost looks like she understands. Or maybe I’m going crazy.

But, it is nice to have the company of a sympathetic animal rather than people right about now. I reach my hand towards her and stroke her face. She leans into my touch, appreciating the attention.

As I look at her more closely, I realize that she is beautiful. She has a dark brown coat with splotches of white on her torso. I vaguely remember from somewhere that this breed is an American Paint. Must have been from a book or some “client” I had for the Agency.

“Well, Miss Laya, you’d never treat me like that, would you?” I whisper to her. She snorts, almost in agreement, and I chuckle.

When I move to stroke her neck, powerful muscles move under my hand. It’s surprisingly relaxing to just pet her, so I do that for a while. I can feel the stress and anger slowly seep out of my muscles as the minutes go by.

Laya decides then to drink more water, so I just sit on a rock in the riverbank next to her, passing the time by watching the fish swim slowly upstream.

The sun is warm on my skin again, but not as it was when I was tied up. The sunburn is starting to fade now that I have proper coverage of my skin, and it is pleasantly warm through my clothing. I can see the start of freckles on my hands, undoubtedly starting on my nose and cheeks as well. Irish skin tends to freckle rather than tan, which Dwight and Colin hated as it marred my “beautiful paleness.”

But, I plan to get as many as possible. They remind me of home.

* * *

 

I’m singing a song softly to myself when Arthur finally makes it back to the river. I’m prodding the rocks under the water with a stick, Laya grazing beside me.

I hear him before I see him. He approaches us, then stops about ten feet away. I don’t look up, because even though I’ve calmed down, I don’t trust myself to not start yelling at him again.

Eventually I stop singing and stand, brushing my skirt and going to fiddle with Laya’s straps. He finally moves, slinging a dead buck over Laya and tying it to her saddle. She wickers unhappily, with the dead cargo likely being pretty heavy on her.

I start brushing her again, expecting another confrontation.

“What was that you were singin’?”

I sigh, not looking at him despite feeling his gaze on me. “Just a song from home.”

“From New York?”

“Nah, Ireland. Well, technically it’s a Scottish song, but my da grew up in Scotland. He sang it to me every morning when he left to tend the field.”

A smile stretches on my face at the memory. Nearly forgetting to be at least cross at Arthur.

“It was nice,” he says, clearly trying to make up for the fight. I don’t respond.

“Listen, Miss Daisy-“

“Just Daisy, please-“

“What I said was uncalled for. You’re new to this, and I was bein’ an ass,” he says, taking his hat off and holding it in front of him, messing with the rim nervously. “I got a temper, you see. Not used to company while huntin’, and I didn’t know what to expect.”

I snort, looking at his boots. “I know all about tempers. You’ve seen it with me already.”

He chortles a bit, and looks down as well. “That I have. Can’t blame you, knowin’ where you come from.”

I pale a bit, remembering that he knows all my dark secrets. “Doesn’t help you at all that I’m terrible at this kind of living. I really should have just stayed with Laya the whole time-“

“You’re not bad at it, jus’ new. You tracked game without even tryin’. You just need some practice. We all did. ‘Sides, if you’re goin’ to live on your own out West, you need to know how to do these things.”

He says this earnestly, and I raise my eyes to his. They shine blue in the sunlight, finally uncovered by his hat. They have flecks of green around the pupils. Soft, dark lashes brush his cheek every time he blinks.

_Damn him. Its hard to stay mad at someone who looks like a puppy dog asking for forgiveness._

I bite my lip, and fiddle with my hands. “Well, I guess we’ll have to add hunting to the list of things I need lessons on.”

He smirks and puts his hat back on, knowing he’s been forgiven. I smirk back, even if he is being a pompous ass.

“Well, I can help with that a bit, but Charles’s likely the one you’ll want for that. D’you want to start now?”

My eyes widen and I shoot my gaze back up to his face. He seems nervous, like he’s expecting me to say no.

_He doesn’t know me very well. Yet._

I nod eagerly, and a broad smile takes over his face, crinkling the sides of his eyes again.

“Right. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

We end up picking up several more kills on the way back to camp. Mostly rabbits and turkey, but its something. Arthur has me hunt with his throwing knives, which surprises me quite a bit.

“Why would I make you use a gun you ain’t comfortable with? ‘Sides, you’re deadlier than me with those things.”

That was his reasoning when he handed me his knives, at least. My kills are messy, but I’m able to get most of the rabbits in the eye with the small blades.

Mostly, he just taught me to be quieter when stalking prey, and to keep to grass when walking. He also told me to mind the wind when close to prey, that animals would be able to pick up my scent on the breeze if I’m coming from upwind.

It was extremely satisfying to get some kills. To feel adequate again.

I also feel like I’ve known Arthur for my entire life, not just the week or so since the train. I feel a strange connection with him. _Hosea, Charles, and the girls, too_ , I add hastily, not letting my mind go where it wants to go.

I feel good with this group. And Arthur. No matter how long I get to stay with them.

Eventually, we get enough kills that I’m not able to fit on the back of the horse, so I have to ride in front of Arthur in the saddle. I try, and fail, to keep my blush under control with his strong arms wrapped around me to grip the reins. I barely breathe during the journey back to the camp, trying not to jostle or move at all, hands tight on the horn of the saddle. He seems stiff behind me, as well, but that could be being squeezed between dead bodies and having an additional person in the saddle.

When we arrive back at camp, he pulls Laya close to one of the hitches. The camp is bustling, everyone walking around attending to the various chores. Dutch notices us and waves, but makes no move to greet us further.

“You ready?” Arthur asks from behind me. I nod.

His hands go to my waist and he lifts me out of the saddle and to the ground. Like I barely weighed more than a sack of potatoes.

I try and fail to keep my composure as I begin to unload the smaller animals from the saddle, hands shaking as I unfasten the ties. Arthur slides down on the other side of the horse, face obscured by his hat, and grabs the buck off the back.

We carry the animals to Pearson’s wagon in silence, greeting the occasional gang member who we pass. They all seem to be used to me by now.

But not everyone has been here all week.

Because as we get to Pearson’s wagon, a man steps out from behind it, gun in hand, stalking towards us.

“This her?!” he demands to Pearson, who looks up from the vegetables he was chopping. Pearson doesn’t make a move to respond, looking towards Arthur instead.

The man takes a step closer. His blonde hair is a greasy curtain under his hat, with a long mustache and beady eyes underneath the rim. He looks at me with wrath written on his face.

He holds the gun up, aimed at my face. Arthur steps in front of me.

“Micah, back off-“

“ _Is this the fucking Pinkerton bitch that I’ve been hearin’ all about?!”_


	6. there are some things that must remain secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah's a piece of shit. That's a summary for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your amazing kudos and comments! They keep feeding the fire, and I appreciate it so much!
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm going to have to take a short break after this chapter. My teaching portfolio is due at the end of April ... yeah ... haven't started :) Mostly because I've been busy writing this. I'd rather be writing this, and my procrastination agrees with me. But this portfolio needs to get done, so please be patient if I don't post for a couple of weeks. 
> 
> Don't forget the period-typical misogyny in this fic. Daisy is also incredibly self-deprecating, so prepare yourselves for some A N G S T.

The man’s fury is the first thing that has genuinely frightened me since my move to the west. Spittle flies out of his mouth, and nothing but wrath shines in his eyes. He tries to get around Arthur, still aiming his gun at me.

I back away, tripping on a root and scrambling to get back to my feet. My hands protest under their bandages.

A crowd is starting to gather around us. Tilly and Mary-Beth rush forward to help me to my feet. Jack pokes his head out of his tent, but Abigail rushes forward and pushes him back in.

“What the fuck are you doin’, cowpoke? Move aside! I’m gonna kill this Pinkerton bitch before she kills us all!”

Micah rushes forward again, but Pearson holds him back this time. Lenny and Javier move to Arthur’s side, shielding me as well.

“Would you calm the fuck down, Micah?” Karen yells, coming in from her guard duty to see what all the commotion is about.

Micah is now incomprehensible, trying to go through Arthur to me. Arthur pushes him off, causing Micah to stumble to the ground.

Blonde hair… Rage in his blue eyes…

I shake myself out of that terrible memory, still incapable of speech when Dutch stalks over to us.

“What the hell is going on here?!” he demands of Hosea, who is palming his gun in its holster as he stares at Micah, trying to stand back up but being held down by Lenny and Javier.

“Get your fucking hands off me, you god damn darkie!” Micah screams. Dutch’s face twists at the slur, but makes no move towards them.

“Javier, Lenny, let him go.”

The two men look at Dutch, but follow his orders. Lenny purses his lips but doesn’t say anything to Micah about the slur.

Micah springs to his feet again, facing Dutch and Micah this time.

“What the hell are you doin’, Micah? You’re goin’ to hurt someone,” Dutch reprimands, calm but in a tone that tells me its forced.

“Yeah, that’s the fuckin’ plan, boss. I come back for one afternoon, bringin’ in a haul from a job I did yesterday, and Pearson and Bill tell me all ‘bout this new woman in the camp. Under the strangest circumstances,” he says the last part between his teeth, looking back down at me.

I pale under his glare. I can feel my panic rising, despite my best efforts. Tilly grabs my hand, offering some kind of comfort.

“They tell me-“

“That she’s from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, yes,” Hosea cuts in, stepping forward a bit. “She told us everything. Pearson, Bill, did you get to the part where she defected?”

Pearson looks at the ground guiltily. Bill doesn’t react.

“No. They got into camp at that part,” Pearson replies quietly, shooting an apologetic gaze at me and Arthur.

“Believe me, son, we didn’t just let her in for nothing,” Dutch says, holding his hands up, trying to calm Micah. “We kept her tied up for days, even after she told us her story. But, the damn O’Driscolls came and tried to carry off Jack. She saved him,” he points at me, “and took down two O’Driscolls doing it.”

“That don’t mean she’s on our side!” Micah insists, making a move towards me again. I flinch away, and Mary-Beth puts an arm around me. He is still holding his gun.

“She has given us no reason to doubt her so far,” Hosea adds.

“Yeah, so far. Ain’t nothing stoppin’ her from stabbing us in the backs while we sleep!”

“What’s this ‘we’ you keep talkin’ about, Bell?” Arthur demands suddenly. “Us? You ain’t been here since we got down from Colter!”

“’Cause you all blame Blackwater on me! I ain’t comin’ back without a peace offerin’, but lo and behold you all let the god damn enemy in while I’m away! Knew I was the only one with sense, but a god damn Pinkerton?”

“She ain’t a Pinkerton no more, you moron! You think we’d let a real Pinkerton live with us?!”

“I don’t know nothin’ no more-“

“Yeah, tell us somethin’ we don’t know-“

“You fucking-“

“Enough!”

Dutch had to roar this over their rising voices. Arthur’s chest in heaving, and Micah looks at Dutch with utter betrayal in his eyes.

“How could you do this, boss? She’s a-“

“I’m well aware of what she was, Micah. I was there when she told us everything. You weren’t, so you don’t trust that she’s with us. I understand that. What I’m asking for is a little faith.”

“Faith? Is that all? I thought you’d ask me to accept the enemy in our camp, because make no mistake, she’s still the enemy. Believe it or not. And she will bring the Pinkertons down on you. Its only a matter of time.”

He holsters his gun and walks off to the edge of camp, turning to say, “I’ll still come with that peace offerin’, Dutch. But I ain’t stayin’ until she’s dead in the ground.”

With that, he mounts his horse and rides off.

Dutch sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He turns towards Hosea.

“We need to speak on this, my friend. Arthur, if you please.”

Arthur stalks towards Dutch’s tent, not looking back. Hosea pats me on the shoulder before following.

Dutch crouches down in front of me. Its at this point that I realize I’m actually on the ground, relying fully on Tilly and Mary-Beth to hold me up, with Abigail, John, and Karen behind me. I can’t remember falling down.

Blonde hair, weighed down by sweat and grease and dirt. Blue eyes, either without emotion or full of fury.

“Miss Daisy, I don’t want to you worry on this. We all owe you a debt and wouldn’t let anything happen. Micah... is Micah. It’ll take him a while, but he’s part of the family, and will accept you in his own time.”

He says this, probably expecting me to feel better by his words.

I don’t, but I give him a strained smile anyway and nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Good. Ladies, get her somethin’ to eat, if you will. She’s had a long day. Everyone else, just go back to what you were doin’.” At that, Dutch trudges off towards his tent, closing the flap behind him.

“C’mon girlie,” Karen says, grabbing an arm to help me to my feet, “let’s get some grub in you.”

Pearson cooks up a rabbit that Arthur and I brought back. Karen helps me to a log by one of the fires, but returns to her post when I’ve settled with Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Abigail around me. Another woman of the camp, Sadie, brings the rabbit over, and we start tearing chunks off it to eat. Its bland, but warm and filling. Each bite fills the void of emptiness in me.

I don’t realize that I’ve started crying until Tilly reaches to wipe a tear off my cheek.

“Don’t mind Micah, Miss Daisy. He’s an ass. We all think so,” she says, biting into a leg of the rabbit. I try to smile, but probably grimace more than anything. I take another bite to avoid having to say anything.

“Not to pry, Daisy, but you don’t seem the type to shirk at threatening men easily. Have you met Micah before?” Mary-Beth questions. I shake my head.

“I’ve seen men like him, though. Tend to treat women the worst. Especially women like me. Whores,” I add at the end.

They immediately jump to my defense, denying what I said. “No, Daisy-“

“Its true. It was then, and it is now. A whore and a Pinkerton. That’s all I was in New York. That’s what they made me. That’s all I’ll ever be. No man, no one, will ever see past that.” New tears slide down my cheeks.

I stand quickly, before I shatter in front of them. “There’s laundry to do. Thanks for helping me.”

At that, I stalk off, not looking back at them.

* * *

 

Hosea finds me down by the river, elbow deep in a bucket with a washboard, furiously scrubbing someone’s pants. My bandages are off to the side, still covered in dried blood.

He settles down next to me, staring off towards the river. I don’t stop scrubbing.

“Mary-Beth told me what you said.”

I still scrub.

“Daisy.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I finally stop. He draws my hands out of the bucket.

“You’re bleeding again. Here.”

He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket to hold against my hands.

“Thanks,” I whisper, barely audible. He nods at me.

I sit back, and Hosea wrings out the water from the pants I was washing. Even though the water is slightly red from blood, it didn’t seem to stain the pants. He throws them over a tree branch where the rest of the clean laundry is hanging, then returns to my side.

“You realize that no one thinks that, right? Not a single one of us sees you like that,” he says, turning his blue gaze towards me. I shift uncomfortably, but return his stare.

“Why not? That’s all I am.”

“That is not all you are. Not in the slightest. What you are is a survivor.”

I look down at my feet in front of me, avoiding eye contact. My eyes swim in tears again.

“You did what you had to do to survive. You took all they had to throw at you, and still came out with enough of you left to leave them. That took strength beyond just about anything I’ve seen.”

My shoulders shake with sobs. I’ve cried more at this camp than any other time I can remember.

“You are also kind, and smart, and fierce. You saved a boy who is a near stranger to you still. Do not think for one second that you became what they forced upon you. Because you didn’t.”

I cover my face with my bleeding hands, racking sobs tearing through my chest. Hosea puts an arm around my shoulder, rubbing my arm soothingly. We sit like this for a while, until I can catch my breath once again.

“You are so much more than you think you are. We all see that. We’ve been seeing it for a while now. We’re just waiting on you to catch up,” he says with a smile.

“I’m not so sure about all of that, but thanks all the same,” I say to him, wiping my eyes.

We sit like that for a while, just watching the river flow by. The sun sets in the sky, and the shadows of the trees across the river grow longer on the ground.

Eventually, Hosea speaks up again.

“Daisy, I need to ask you something before we go back.” He seems a little nervous as he says this.

“Okay, Hosea. What is it?” I ask, emotionally exhausted from the events of today.

He takes a deep breath, then starts in. “Now, I know you told the women that you’d never met Micah before. That his kind was typical of the – uhm - men you’d dealt with in the past. But I have to know if you were telling the truth.”

I stare at him quizzically, eyes swollen from crying but still confused. That prompts him to explain more.

“We don’t know much of Micah from before he joined us. We hear rumors with each town about a man by his description, doing some pretty terrible things then leaving. Shooting up villages for petty reasons, ravaging women, holding up businesses then killing everyone in them anyways. Dutch keeps him around because he sees good in him – and he’s an excellent shot – but the rest of us ain’t so sure.

So we need to know if Micah is part of your past. If he did things to you that you described other men doing to you. Because if he did, the decision would be to keep one of you and send the other away.”

My heart drops at his words. I just got here, and they’re already thinking of sending me away.

He reads the look in my eyes and hastily adds, “Now, I’m leaning more towards you. My kind of criminal behavior is quiet; case the target, get the money as quietly as possible, and leave them in the dust. Micah does not have a subtle bone in his body. That mess in Blackwater is all the proof we need of that.”

This is the second mention of Blackwater, and I have no idea what they are talking about. But that’s a conversation for another time.

“But you have already done things for the gang that I don’t think Micah would ever do. Fully confess to your sordid past, for one. Saving the boy, for another. And also, doing chores without anyone forcing you to,” he added, glancing back at the laundry, and I chuckle a bit at that, “is definitely a positive quality here. Things Micah wouldn’t do. I’m not saying that the decision is made, if it comes down to that. But, from where I sit, I know where my vote would go.”

He smiles a bit, and I return the grin.

Its good to know I at least have one person on my side. Mostly.

“Now, are you ready to head back up?”

I nod at his question, standing up and emptying the bucket into the river.

“Good. We need to patch you up again, and its close to dinner, anyways.”

I grab the clothes that were hanging to dry and set them in the bucket. I’ll hang them back up in the camp. Hosea grabs the bucket from my hands, ignoring my protests that I could carry it back up.

“Now, that wouldn’t make me a gentleman, though!” He says this with a smirk and starts back up the hill.

I feel a bit put out, but smile and catch up to him anyway.

We walk back to camp in companionable silence, listening to the sounds of nature. When we reach the edge of the overlook, I lean over and kiss his cheek.

“Thanks for everything, Hosea. What you said meant a lot, even if I don’t fully agree with you,” I say, a flush of embarrassment flooding my cheeks.

“We will make you see those things in yourself if it kills us,” he says earnestly, eyes twinkling. “Besides, the more you see of the gang, the more you’ll realize that none of us are good people. But, it’s the effort and intention to be good that really counts towards something. And you’ve got that in spades.”

He smiles again, and I take the bucket and wave back at him as he settles at the table across from Sean and Lenny.

I walk over to the clothes line, where Abigail is pulling down the dry clothes to be folded. I start hanging the damp clothes when she speaks to me.

“It’s good to see you feelin’ better, Daisy,” she says, grabbing some of Jack’s shirts off the line close to my clothes. I reach out for the clothes pins still stuck to the line.

“Don’t know how much better I look, but I definitely feel better,” I reply with a small smile, reaching for more damp clothes in the bucket. “I don’t think it changes much of what people think of me, though.”

“Don’t worry about anyone else. They’ll come around. And if they don’t, they don’t matter anyway,” she says reassuringly.

“Momma! Look what I got!” Jack comes running over, holding something in his enclosed hands. He gets to Abigail and holds his hands open just a little, enough to see the tiny frog he’s caught.

“Oh, Jack, get rid of that! It’ll give you warts!” she admonishes, kneeling down in front of him, getting ready to wrench his hands open.

“I believe that’s toads, Abigail,” I say, going and putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “But, there’s probably diseases on it, so you’d better let it go, Jack.”

“Aw,” he sighs, and lowers his hands to the ground to release the frog. It hops out of his hands and towards the forest. He seems a bit put out and sniffles a bit as we watch the frog retreat. Abigail pulls him into her lap and starts wiping off his hands with a handkerchief.

“Do you want to hear that story now, Jack?” I ask him, hoping to cheer him up. He sniffles again, wipes an eye with his sleeve, and nods. Abigail smiles up at me.

“There was once a beautiful peasant girl who worked very hard to help her family. She helped them harvest their wheat, and clean their hut, as well as butcher and cut their hunting game. But, despite all  this hard work, her beauty and kindness never faded,” I start, pinning the last of the wet clothes to the line and settling on the ground in front of Jack and Abigail. I pull out some bandages to rewrap my hands. Jack fiddles with his sleeves a little more, but seems to be paying attention to my words.

“Her father, for her birthday one year, granted her a magical gift for all of her hard work. It was a golden ball that could change into any shape or form she wished. She could change it into a coin to flip, or keep it as a ball to throw around, or as a stick to swing. She thanked her father, and took it to play with her brothers and sisters.”

Jack sniffles again, but seems distracted from being upset about the frog. “I want a ball like that.”

Abigail kisses the top of his head. “I know, darling. Money’s tight, though, you know that. We got to make do.”

Jack nods, seeming upset again. I make a note in my head to keep my eye out for a ball, making plans to possibly make a rag ball in the meantime. I continue with the story.

“She and her siblings took the ball out to the pond on their farm and started playing a game with the girl’s new toy. The girl was a little old to play ball with her younger brothers and sisters, so she mostly kept her eyes on them while they threw her ball to each other. She was fiddling with a bit of grass when she heard a splash, and her siblings gasp. When she looked over, she found her new, magical toy sinking to the bottom of the pond, carelessly thrown there by one of her brothers.”

Jack looked distraught, like the ball was real and he lost it himself. I giggle at his face, and he lightens up a bit.

“What happens next?” he exclaims, wiggling in Abigail’s lap. His mother looks up at me with sympathy in her eyes. She’s clearly thankful for not having to distract Jack from the loss of his frog, as well as trying to make up for getting rid of it. I’m more than willing to help the boy, so I continue.

“Angry, the girl sent her brothers and sisters back to their hut, and sat by the pond, puzzled about how to get her sunken gift back. She began to cry in frustration, and out of loss of the one thing in the world that momentarily brought her happiness. That was when she heard a voice from near her.

“’Lovely girl,’ the strange voice says, ‘what makes you cry so?’” I make my voice low and scratchy, at the back of my throat as much as possible, and Jack laughs at my intonation.

“Momma, she sounds like Uncle Arthur!” he exclaims, and Abigail and I lose it, at the idea of Arthur sounding like a frog from a story. We laugh like that for a long time, until Jack squirms impatiently for me to continue.

“Miss Daisy, please! I wanna hear more!” he begs me, and I wipe my eyes to continue.

“Jack, manners,” Abigail reminds him. Jack mutters a soft “please” which makes me laugh again.

“Alright, Jack. The girl looked around to find out who had spoken, but only saw a big, green, slimy frog on the shore of the pond. She couldn’t believe that it was speaking, so she replied without thought. ‘I’m sad because my gift sank to the bottom of the pond, and I have no way to get it back!’

“The frog nodded at her words, and replied with an offer. ‘I can retrieve your gift for you, but only for a price.’”

At that part of the story, Pearson calls out dinner time to the camp.

“Okay, Jack, that’s enough for today. Thank Miss Daisy,” Abigail says, standing them both up.

“Aw, Momma!” Jack whines, standing in front of her. I crouch to his eye level.

“Don’t worry, Jack. We can continue the story later,” I promise, rubbing his shoulder with my hand again. He nods eagerly, then follows Abigail to the stew pot for dinner.

“Thanks, Miss Daisy!” he calls back over his shoulder, almost forgetting his mother’s order to thank me. I laugh and wave back at him.

“You’re good with him,” a raspy voice says from behind me. I turn to see John standing there, staring at his family with a gaze that’s hard to read. Wistful, but also resentful, somehow.

“I like children. They’re innocent to the horrors of the world, and I like keeping it that way. Plus, they’re entertaining,” I say, fully turning to face him. “You’ve got a good one.”

He snorts at my words. “Yeah, if he’s actually mine.”

I’m shocked by his words, and my face undoubtedly shows this. Which prompts him to explain.

“There ain’t no way to tell if he’s mine. Haven’t got a clue if that’s my boy, and Abigail insists he’s mine so he can have a father,” he says, as an explanation. A poor one, honestly.

“The only proof you need is the way he acts around you. And that he considers you his pa,” I say, calmly but cooly. His gaze hardens. “Most children don’t even have what that boy has. Most would wish they had a man in their life they could, at the very, very least, pretend was their father. So don’t take that away from him.”

Apparently, seeing his coldness towards Jack touched a nerve more than I anticipated, so I walk away from John towards the tent I share. I grab the tin cup from my supplies and take it to fill with any leftover coffee to drink with my dinner.

The rest of the camp has gathered around the dining areas, the fires and tables, with the new game stew Pearson made, tearing up pieces of bread to dip in the thick liquid. There were some quiet conversations, but mostly the gang members ate in silence, eager to choke down the bland meal and get back to whatever they were doing.

I sit next to Lenny at the main campfire, stirring my bowl of stew to cool it down. Lenny smiles at me when I sit, but has a mouthful, so doesn’t say anything. I’m a bit grateful; I’ve done a lot of talking today, and the silence is welcome. The others at the fire – Tilly and Mary-Beth, Javier, Bill, Hosea, Karen, and Sean – chew quietly for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. They start quiet conversations as their food settles, which gets louder and rowdier with the setting sun and with more drink in their bellies.

Some members peel off to finish chores, but it’s been a long day, and most stay to blow off some steam. I mostly keep to myself, giving simple answers when asked a question, and just listen to the banter around me.

I realize that Sean and Karen, for how much they tease each other, are definitely together. The way they nudge shoulders or playfully hit each other tells of a quiet intimacy between them. The shared glances make it even more pronounced.

Lenny is quite intelligent but wants to not seem that way. He’s almost as observant as I am, and always has a quick quip to someone’s verbal jab at him. Being so young, he probably feels like he has something to prove to the gang, but to a group of people who value acts more than words, it would be difficult for his brain to be taken seriously. And, despite being smart, he’s incredibly naïve. He doesn’t get a lot of the bawdy jokes being thrown around the campfire by Bill or Sean, and seems to just shrug them off.

Tilly and Mary-Beth speak to Javier, and it becomes apparent that these two have taken it upon themselves to keep the gang members sane – and human. They speak quietly, but it seems to get serious, as Javier’s face falls at some confession he gives them. Mary-Beth leans forward to put a hand on his shoulder as Tilly whispers something at him, which makes him lighten up a bit again. He thanks the two of them before turning his attention back to the group around the fire. With all the violent and criminal activity these people participate in, it would be easy to get carried away, so it seems likely that these two do as much as they can to keep the gang members’ heads on their shoulders through their dark deeds.

Hosea notices me observing the others, and I smile at him. He is clearly the caretaker of the gang, almost like an elder. They go to him for advice, or he comes to them, as he did me. And he also seems to be the mediator, more so than Dutch.

He smiles back at me, but turns his attention towards a table off in the middle of the camp. Dutch sits there with a beautiful woman I haven’t seen yet, as well as Abigail, John, and Jack. There’s also a man I haven’t seen sitting there, wearing a nice suit and a small pair of glasses. Talking over something important.

There’s a few camp members I haven’t seen tonight, like Sadie, but it’s likely because they’re off on patrol somewhere.

And I haven’t seen Arthur yet. Or Charles.

I open a beer and turn back towards all the excitement around the campfire.

* * *

 

I decide that joining up with the Van Der Linde gang was a very good decision.

Because these people are fun.

I’m in the middle of beer number four, listening to Sean and Javier get into some kind of argument over whether Irish porter or Mexican cerveza is better when we hear hoof steps approaching camp. We all lazily turn to see who just arrived, and some drunkenly greet Arthur and Charles with a gargled “hey!”

Charles immediately stalks off towards the edge of camp, likely to relieve Sadie from her guard duty. Arthur walks over to Dutch and mumbles something in his ear. I turn back to the fire, sipping the bottle in my hand. I stretch my bare feet closer to the flames, warming them, trying to get them as warm as my face, which has flushed with the alcohol.

“Miss Daisy, where’d your shoes go?” Tilly asks suddenly, scandalized by my lack of footwear. I giggle at her scrunched up face.

“I like feeling the grass beneath my feet. I’ve never seen so much grass in my life, growing up in the city. I’m feeling it as often as I can,” I say smirking and sinking further into the ground, leaning on the log. Tilly still looks flabbergasted, but something I said must have resonated with Mary-Beth, as she reaches down to tug off her shoes as well.

“What? It ain’t that cold by the fire,” she says as Tilly turns her incredulous face towards her now bare feet. Tilly just shakes her head and laughs at us, taking another sip from the bottle in her hands.

Arthur approaches the fire and takes a seat by Hosea, looking quizzically at mine and Mary-Beth’s bare feet, but not commenting. He and Hosea start a quiet conversation, and I decide to ignore them.

I finish beer number four, and Sean passes another one to me. I nod in thanks, and Karen clings to his outstretched arm, whispering something in his ear. He makes a hilarious face and quickly stands, dragging Karen off to some tent somewhere.

Its Mary-Beth’s turn to act scandalized, but we all laugh in the end. I’m starting to really feel woozy from beer number five when Arthur moves to a spot next to me.

“Miss Daisy,” he says in greeting, settling in onto the log. I wave lazily, taking another gulp from beer five.

“Daisy,” I remind him, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. I can’t really trust myself to say much more right now.

He waves a hand of dismissal at me. “Yeah, I know. Just feels more proper.”

“Nothing proper ‘bout me,” I reply, waving to my face and dirty clothes. His eyes go to my bare feet again.

“Says the woman dressed like a baroness on that train,” he says with a soft smile. I nudge his leg with my elbow, nearly falling on myself, and he laughs at my drunken gesture.

We sit there for a while, continuing to listen to conversations around us. Javier at one point has retrieved his guitar and is quietly plucking strings across the fire, humming a tune. Sadie joins us and sways side to side, taking a load off after her guard duty.

But a thought won’t get out of my head. Arthur mentioning the train has me thinking about something that has bothered me since I joined the gang.

“Got a question,” I turn to him, head leaning back against the log. I clearly can’t speak in full sentences anymore, but I need to try. He looks over at me, eyes asking for a reply.

“Why’d you take me off the train? Why not just kill me and take my things, be done with it?” My lips are numb, and don’t form the words well, but I think I got the point across.

Arthur looks puzzled for a minute. “We wouldn’t kill a woman in need, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“Imma woman in need?” I slur as a question, raising an eyebrow at him. Considering I was able to keep him from escaping, I wouldn’t consider myself as someone who can’t take care of myself.

“That ain’t what I meant. You jus’ looked so… I dunno. So sad?” he says, looking off at the fire again. “When we walked into the car, we saw you right away. And you were just there, lookin’ out the window, not really carin’ what happened to the others. All alone. Durin’ a standup. Weren’t right to kill ya, just needed your things. Couldn’t rightfully do both,” he said somberly, fiddling with the whiskey bottle in his hands.

“You were absolutely going to kill me,” I say earnestly, remembering him tense up and John getting ready to draw his gun at me.

He snorts at my voice. “Weren’t gonna kill ya. S’not how we do things. If John had pulled the gun, in our experience, chances were that you’d stop and give up.” He sees the face I’m making and quickly adds, “This before we got to know you, o’course.

“And you seemed so… desperate. For somethin’. Like you were desperate to get out, or desperate to die. So, when things got settled and Sean knocked you out, we offered you the ‘get out’ path.”

I nod at his words, taking another swig. I’m uncomfortable with people seeing vulnerability in me, so hearing Arthur’s reasoning behind taking me, hearing his description that sees right through my exterior, goes against all the training I received at the Agency.

Some of the training I might be less willing to part with.

I finish number five and throw the bottle in the fire, pushing a hand on the ground to hoist myself up. I stumble a bit, but I feel a strong arm grip my elbow. Arthur helps me up, standing himself.

“You alright?” he asks, eyeing my face. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady me.

“You’re so strong. Shoulders like iron,” I mumble. My hand moves down his arm, feeling the defined muscles there as well. His vein in his bicep runs against my thumb, and I stop my hand on his elbow. I manage to stop talking before I say anything I’ll regret in the morning.

He clears his throat and lets me go, swaying on my two feet. “I, uh – let’s get ya to your tent.”

I start off towards it, feeling him more than seeing him right next to me. We really don’t get far before another voice stops us.

“Herr Morgan!”

I feel Arthur tense up and hear him groan, turning to face the voice. “Mr. Strauss,” he says in unenthusiastic greeting.

“Have you had a chance to visit Mr. Downes yet?” Strauss asks expectantly.

“Nah, not just yet,” Arthur replies, not making eye contact.

“You need to go soon, Herr Morgan. These people need reminders that debts are due,” Strauss admonishes. “Tomorrow. You’ll go tomorrow, yes?”

Arthur sighs, but nods in reply.

“Good. I’ll be here to collect. Good evening.”

At that, the man walks back towards a large wagon. I just now realize that he was speaking with a German accent. I not only lose control over how flushed my face gets with drink, but also on observational skills I’ve come to rely on.

I need to sleep it off before I make a damn fool of myself.

“And bring the girl with you! Let’s see if she can get the job done before resorting to your fists!” Strauss calls over his shoulder after a thought. Arthur groans again, leading me to my tent.

He leaves me at the tent flap, patting my shoulder a couple of times before heading off to his own lean-to. I stumble inside, only managing to brace my hands on the ground before flopping onto my bedroll, almost asleep by the time I land.

The world spins around me, but one thought lingers before I dive into unconsciousness.

_Wait, am_  I _the girl?!_


	7. to the wind, you're a toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy and Arthur run a "little errand". 
> 
> And things only go "a little south".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (emerges from the smoke like Mushu" I LIIIIIIVVVVEEEEE! (sorry)
> 
> That teaching portfolio, while not being horrible to finish, completely burst my writer's bubble. So I struggled through writer's block this chapter, and am therefore not super happy with it. 
> 
> But, comments and criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for sticking with it through the long wait, and I'm excited to see what you guys think!

Despite the amount I drank, I barely got any sleep. I found myself awake before sunrise, with maybe three or four hours having actually slept. There’s no way I’ll be able to nod off again, though, because my head pounds and I can feel how dizzy the drink still makes me.

So, I pull on the heavier coat that I bought in Valentine, grab my journal and my book, and set off to make coffee.

The dew of the morning is frigid against my bare feet, but considering how feverish I feel, its actually quite nice. The heat of the camp fire also feels lovely, and I bend to see if there’s any coffee left. Its about half-full, and after taking my tin cup and filling it with the brown liquid, I turn to see why. John is at one entrance of the camp keeping guard, with Lenny at the other. Clearly, these early morning shifts take it out of you, and more coffee than usual is required.

I consider whether or not I should offer to take over one of their shifts, as I’m not going to go back to sleep, but think better on it. While I’ve been here for a little more than a week, I don’t think a lot of the camp trusts me enough yet to guard them. Especially with that business with Micah.

So, I take my steaming cup and my books and head to one of the boulders overlooking the valley below.

As I get settled, the sky lightening just a little with each minute, I wonder what my next move is. While the gang offered me a place with the group, it never seemed intended to be permanent. Just until I can make a plan and get back on my feet. But, with each day, I feel like I’m fitting in with these people more and more. Jack and Abigail certainly don’t mind having me around, despite what John might think of me. Hosea has already treated me like a lost child he’s taken under his wing, and I wonder if that is how most of the people here were added to the gang. Lost people, simply being found by other lost people. Charles is certainly one that I would like to be more acquainted with, being quiet and stoic and honest. One who won’t prod me for details of my past. One who might teach me how to throw that tomahawk, if I ask nicely enough.

And there’s Arthur. Who, despite his imposing figure, intimidating nature, and despite my having treated him as a hostage, has shown me incredible kindness and compassion. Who treated me as a human when I was bound to the tree, not scared or territorial when asked to share horseback with me, and who seemed genuinely excited to teach and learn from me. Even with his temper tantrum, and mine in return, he treats me as a person worthy of respect.

More than I’ve been treated in years.

But, most in the gang have been warming on me, and Arthur’s not isolated in that. I need to stop seeing things where they will never be. Stop giving myself hope for a future I don’t deserve.

My head begins to pound again, and I rub my temples to ease the pain. When I sip at my coffee, a bit of the ache in my head and muscles begins to seep away. And, with that, I open my journal and begin to write.

I don’t really write about anything in particular. A little that recounts my time in the last week, holding John and Arthur captive, then being held captive in turn, then joining the gang after killing two men. I draw a little as well, small images in the margins that grow to half a page. Pictures of men with scars on their faces, with long braids and tomahawks, or with gray hair that speaks of the wisdom of age. A man with a blue coat, standing atop an oil tanker in the middle of a railroad crossing.

I’m in the middle of drawing the hawk that seems to live near this area, circling above the river searching for breakfast, when I hear gentle footsteps approach the boulder I’m sitting on.

“Surprised to see you up so early!”

Lenny, clearly just released from his watch shift, ambles over with a mug of coffee. I scoot over on the boulder and he sits next to me.

“I’ve never been much of a heavy sleeper. Especially after drinking, can’t really settle after that,” I reply, giving him a small smile and sipping the coffee.

“Well, that’ll certainly set you apart from the camp. Most of us sleep like the dead after a night of drinking. Unless you have guard duty,” he says with a shrug, chuckling a bit.

We sit in companionable silence for a time. He’s younger than most of the other gang members, enough so that it must have been hard for him to start fitting in here. Even so, he seems fiercely dedicated to the gang, and always seems eager to join in on a job or a deal.

He’s sweet, really. And even though my head continues to pound with every heartbeat, and the coffee is only just starting to settle my stomach, I’m glad of his company.

“Y’know, Arthur keeps a journal just like that. Never can tell what he’s writing in it, though. Always has it on his person,” Lenny comments, nodding down at the leather-bound journal in my hand. I take this as a request to see what I’ve been doodling in it, so I hand it to him.

“I’ve always been better at communication through writing. Talking is easy enough, but I prefer writing. Dunno, guess I always have,” I remark as he pages through my journal.

“You’d like my dad, then,” he says, taking me by surprise. “Well, would have. He had a real brain on him, was always writing ideas and drabbles on anything he could find. Never could figure out how to talk to me, though.”

He says the last bit wistfully, and I simply look at his face, silently asking him to elaborate. He sighs.

“He never understood why I wanted to leave. To him, city living was everything. Intellectuals could gather and speak without it being such a chore. But he ignored the festering underbellies of anywhere we moved,” he says, the last part with a frown. “He never seemed to notice the stares we got. A wholesome, colored family in fine clothing, strutting about the parks and markets. Ex-slaves who’d found a better life after emancipation, better even than those who owned slaves. He never understood the resentment I could feel boiling off these people, especially in the South. So, when I told him I wanted to move west, where people might stop with their prejudice, he laughed at me.”

I shook my head in understanding. “That’s terrible, Lenny.”

“I know. So, one day, after kids started throwing cowpies at me in Atlanta, I just up and left. Caught the next train. Sent a letter home, got a few in return asking me to return, but I never did. Not until it was too late.”

I could guess what he’s going to say next. “Did you join the Van der Linde’s before or after he was killed?”

“After. After I ended those maggots who saw fit to kill my pa for the worth of his wallet.”

He stilled, and I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to continue.

“Anyway, I fit right in with these guys, who don’t judge me based on my skin, or what I did to those men who beat my father to death, but rather on my character. Well, mostly,” he says, and my mind goes to Micah’s shouted slur yesterday. “I just wish I had the chance to say goodbye, to explain myself. Maybe it would have never happened.”

He ducks his head a bit, and I started to rub his shoulder with my hand.

“Doesn’t do well to dwell on the past, Lenny,” I say earnestly, “but never forget it. You had a father, who made it through the worst humanity can offer and came out all the better for it. Who, despite his flaws, loved you and cared for you. So many people can’t boast for the same.”

He nods, wiping his face a bit with his hand.

“Besides, colored people might face the most prejudice here, but I saw my fair share of ‘no dogs or Irish allowed’ signs on door fronts. Even though I lost my parents, and I would give anything to have them back with me, having a clear Irish heritage in the Northeast is a sure way to get people against you. I think your father would have realized what was happening around your family and would have acted to protect you, but I imagine he also would have allowed you to make your own life at one point, as well. He seemed like a great man.”

He laughs a little and I join him. “Look at us, buncha hated freaks gathering around the same flag. Gotta wonder what’s going through Dutch’s head to gather so many misfits around him.”

“I reckon he’s got something good going on in his head. Us freaks are the best,” I say with a smile, nudging him with my elbow. “We keep life exciting.”

Lenny gives me an actual laugh at that, and we sit there in more comfortable silence than I’ve felt in years. We watch the sky get lighter until the sun peeks over the horizon, washing the camp in golden light. I begin to hear the stirrings and rumblings around of people, likely as hungover as me, begin to rise from sleep.

“Well, my friend, you’d better get some sleep,” I tell him, standing from my perch on the boulder. “Even with me in the state I’m in, you likely got less than me.”

He stands as well, handing me the journal back. “Thanks for talking, Miss Daisy.”

“Thanks for the company, Lenny. It was very welcome.”

With that, he trudges off to his tent.

I turn back to my journal, thinking on the conversation I just had with Lenny. About he and his family. Got me thinking about my own family, those who I barely knew. Who only exist in vague flashes of my memories, in images and songs. A stone wall surrounding a cottage, leading from a driveway buried in a river. Da had to find the biggest stones from the field to create a path, so Ma’s shoes wouldn’t get wet. Singing in ringing tenor and deep baritone as he plopped them in the stream, kicking the water to soak my front as I giggle and complain.

My hand is moving on the page before I even register it.

* * *

 

The sun has fully risen and is melting the frost on the grass when Arthur makes his way over to me, bowl of porridge in hand. My hand is covered in black from the pencil as I try to piece together the memory on paper.

“Mr. Strauss is gonna have my guts for garters if we wait much longer,” he remarks, setting the bowl down on the boulder next to me. I grunt in reply, continuing to sketch and smear the graphite on the page.

I can feel him look over my shoulder at my journal, and he doesn’t say anything for a while. After a couple more minutes, I find that I’m satisfied with the page and set it down, picking up the porridge. It’s bland. I need to introduce Pearson to salt and, if we’re lucky, cinnamon.

As I scoop spoonful after spoonful of porridge into my mouth, trying to get eating the goo over with, I can still feel Arthur hovering behind me. Brooding. I sense he has a question, but is nervous to ask it. And I can guess what it is.

“It’s the cottage I grew up in when I lived in Ireland. I don’t mind if you look through it; I know you keep yours private.”

With the permission granted, he picks the book up, and thumbs through the couple of pages I filled this morning before settling back on the cottage drawing. He examines it closely and I use a finger to mop up some of the porridge sticking to the bottom of the bowl. I was hungrier than I expected.

“This ain’t bad, Miss Daisy,” he remarks, thumbing carefully at the corner of the drawing, not smudging the graphite. “It’d be much better in charcoal, though. And your perspective could use some work, but your shadin’ is fine.”

I raise an eyebrow at his evaluation, and he sighs. He hands my journal back to me before grabbing his out of the satchel at his side, thumbing through the pages carefully before finding one that’s satisfactory. He holds it out to me.

On the page is a delicately drawn flower, maybe a crocus or something, but it was drawn with such care and accuracy that it takes my breath away. He even drew the small blemishes on the petals, as well as the grass below the stalk. On the other side of the page, a powerful horse was drawn running, rippling muscles reflecting the sunlight through dark fur, mane and tail streaming behind the powerful body. The legs are perfectly proportioned and show a still frame of a gallop.

I turn my gaze back to find him staring at me, almost nervous.

“This is wonderful, Arthur! Where did you learn how to do this?” I ask this and run a finger just beyond one of the horse’s legs, tracing the outline.

“Eh, picked it up here and there. Practice, mostly, but I’ve read a book ‘bout it as well,” he murmurs, clearly embarrassed by my praise.

_He shouldn’t have shown it to me if he didn’t want me to marvel at it. He’s a regular DaVinci with his sketching._

“I wish I could be this good,” I remark wistfully, moving my hand to turn the page. Before I can even finger the edge of the page, he’s snatched it back out of my hands and placed it back in his satchel.

“Oh!” I exclaim, surprised by his sudden move. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed.”

He looks incredibly embarrassed by his sudden moves. “Nah, I’m sorry. I should’ve just asked for it back, not grabbed it from ya.”

I shook my head. “I’m not one to push boundaries, Arthur. Just tell me straight next time, okay?”

He nods and grabs the empty bowl, handing my journal back to me. We make our way back to the campfire to drop off the utensils when we hear a pointed _ahem_ from a tent. I glance over to see Mr. Strauss looking at the two of us over his tiny spectacles. He taps his foot impatiently, which makes Arthur roll his eyes.

“We’re goin’, be patient, you –“ he cuts himself off before putting his foot in his mouth. I grin a bit but continue to just look forward.

I follow him to the horses, but remember quickly to run back to my tent, pulling my boots on and grabbing some throwing knives and my hunting knife from my bag before heading back towards Arthur. He asks if I’m ready, and when I confirm he helps me onto Laya’s back. Trousers, I find out, make riding so much easier, and I’m glad I’ve elected to wear one of my new pairs today. They’re brown and have large pockets, nice for keeping my hands warm in the cold morning. Arthur climbs on in front of me and we’re off, speeding through the surrounding woods nearly before I have time to grab onto him.

In fact, Arthur pushes Laya to go so fast that I cling to him, cheek pressed to his back and knees digging into Laya’s sides for some kind of stability. _Does he remember I’m still new at this?!_

We ride at this pace for a long while, Laya panting loudly in front but keeping the devilish quickness through Arthur’s prodding. We make it to a run-down house sitting in the middle of a prairie and stop, likely having gone miles in no time.

Almost as soon as Laya has stopped, stamping her hooves in irritation, I clamber off of her, throwing myself onto the stability of a nearby boulder. I can feel my legs shake from exhaustion and I grip the rock. If I let go, my legs would surely collapse underneath me. It’s a miracle I didn’t fall off during the ride.

I hear Arthur dismount Laya, but I’m too pissed off to acknowledge him right now. _What’s put him in a foul mood?_

His spurs _cling_ as he paces through the woods we’ve stopped in, headed towards the property. I finally let go of the boulder, only after an assurance that my knees won’t buckle under the pressure, and begin to follow.

“Are you insane? What the hell was that about?!” I shout at him, intent on giving him a piece of my fucking mind. He shoots me a look that says _shut the hell up_ over his shoulder, which I’m tempted to ignore before I remember why we are here.

We’re here to collect a loan.

Which could get ugly.

I figure this means that Arthur needs us to present a united front, an intimidating one, so that we can get in and get the money with no fuss. So, I bite my tongue and press on, following Arthur through the trees.

A man is standing in the middle of a small fenced-in portion of the property, a hoe in hand and shaking slightly. This must be Thomas Downes, and Arthur goes blazing right in, clearly intent on getting this over with. I manage to catch up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Arthur, wait.”

He stops, but doesn’t do anything else to acknowledge my presence. He’s still fixed on the man in the field.

“Let me get the lay of the land, see what we can use. It’s what I do,” I explain briefly, and after a moment’s hesitation, he nods.

There are signs of others in the house, smoke drifting from the chimney and rustling curtains. Thomas turns towards us but doesn’t notice us from our high position, and continues to hoe down the field. He seems weak, somehow, only managing to lift the hoe to a foot or so away from him. His face is terribly mottled and pale, with huge dark bags under his eyes.

That’s when he begins to cough, and a horrible, ragged sound makes its way up to us. I wince at the noise, having heard plenty of coughing from sickhouses in New York. Downes leans on the hoe, covering his mouth with his hand. When he’s caught his breath, he looks down at his hand, and quickly rubs it on the leg of his pants.

_Jesus Christ_.

“Arthur, we can’t go near this man.”

He whips his head towards me, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Why the hell not?” he demands.

“He’s sick, clearly. Could be pneumonia, or God forbid, diphtheria or tuberculosis. Either way, we can’t risk getting sick ourselves by going anywhere near him,” I explain quickly, looking back down at Downes. He’s back to his pathetic farming, barely managing to move any soil. He coughs a couple more times, but tries to work through it.

Arthur sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t matter if he’s on death’s door or healthy as a newborn, we got to collect. Strauss’ll gut me if I don’t bring back the share,” he mutters, stepping forward. I put my hand on his chest this time, which he glances down at briefly.

“I don’t care what Strauss thinks he’s going to do, we’re not going near that man. Nor the house, likely everyone in there is infected, too,” I say, grasping a bit with my fingers. He tenses under my touch but doesn’t move.

“We don’t collect, and others’ll think they don’t got to pay back their own debts, too. Makes for a dangerous precedent,” he replies, hard eyes meeting mine.

I don’t back down. “Didn’t say we couldn’t collect, just that we need to keep our distance.”

“That ain’t how this thing works. If he don’t produce the money, I have to beat it out of him, likely. Got to get a bit closer than spittin’ distance to do that,” he whispers, glancing back down at the man.

“Then we’ll have to get creative. But not you, nor me, nor anyone else is getting close to him. I’ve seen infectious diseases like that run their courses through neighborhoods and sickhouses, and we don’t want any part of that in us, let alone the rest of camp, got it?”

My hard gaze seems to soften his, somehow, and after a beat he nods at my proposal. I slide my hand off his chest, hand tingling from the contact. I push the registration of his hard muscles out of my mind. _I don’t have time to gawk at Arthur more_.

We slowly make our way to the field, and approach the fence. Downes doesn’t seem to hear our approach, so I step around into his view.

“Good morning, Mr. Downes,” I drawl, hooking my thumbs in my belt and praying that it makes me look intimidating.

He jumps a bit and drops the hoe. He looks at me, then at Arthur, visually jumping much more at him.

“You! Uh-Whatever do you want?” This comes out in a stammer.

Arthur steps forward but I put a hand out. “You owe a debt to us, Mr. Downes, and its past due. We’ve come to collect.”

“Oh, n-no… I’m … I’m…” he stammers this again, coughing a bit at the end. Arthur clenches his fist, but does not move yet.

Downes picks up the hoe and holds it out at us. “Listen, please-“

“Oh, you little maggot-“ Arthur starts, stepping around me to approach the gate. _Shit_. I need to act fast if I want us to not get infected. I say what pops into my mind next.

“Now, Mr. Downes, you wouldn’t want this to end violently. Surely you know that you have precious little time left, and toying with us only shortens your timeline!”

I try to say this with an air, but it comes out in a rush to get Arthur to _stop moving towards the walking disease._ He does stop, just short of the fence. Downes is gaping at me.

“H-How did-“

“A blind man could see that you are deathly ill, and even he would have the common goddamn sense to stay away,” I say this pointedly, and Arthur takes a short step back in response.

After gaping at me for a few more seconds, the man sighs, coughs a little more, and starts crying. Of course.

He cries on for a while, but after a minute or so, patience running thin, he finally stammers, “It-its… Its tuberculosis. Doc in town says I’ve got weeks. Your loan,” he points at Arthur, who scoffs, “is part of what I’m using to get my family set up for when I’m gone.” He stops speaking and the tears on his cheeks fall to the ground. “They don’t know.”

There’s a beat of silence. _What kind of idiots are they, not to see him so clearly on Death’s doorstep._

Then, Arthur speaks up. “You’ve had a rough go, Mr. Downes. Ain’t no one denyin’ that. But, you still have a debt that I need to collect.”

Downes just looks at Arthur with the most pitiful expression I’ve seen, and he grips the hoe with both hands, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “I don’t have it, sir. I’m sorry.”

I sigh and shake my head. Arthur speaks again.

“That is a shame. A shame for them,” Arthur nods at the house. Downes whips his head to the house, then back at Arthur. “A shame that they’re goin’ to have to inherit the debt you’ve taken out in their name.”

Downes steps back, shaking his head. “Mister, please, they don’t have anything to do with this. Nothing. This was my decision-“

“And a bad one at that. But, money needs collectin’, no matter who needs to pay.”

Arthur says this last part with grim determination, and begins to step towards the gate again. I need to stop him.

I step forward, into the path that Arthur is taking towards Downes. “Mr. Morgan, if you would, I think I’ve left the ledger back in my saddle bags. Could you get those for me so I can converse with Mrs. Downes?”

Arthur hesitates, but looks down at me. Fury is written in his eyes. Clearly, he is used to having the authority in these situations, and I’ve just degraded him quite a bit.

He’ll have to get over it. I’m saving his life.

I return his hard gaze with one of my own. He finally relents and waves his hand in the air, grunting as he paces towards the horses in the woods.

I turn back towards Mr. Downes. “You truly have nothing. No possessions you could pawn, no cash, nothing?”

His glance is downcast again, but he nods. “It’s true. Spent it all to get out here in the first place. And I’ll leave here with nothing. And they’ll have nothing when I’m gone.”

I look back towards the house. “They’ll have something. From you. Likely have it already.”

My shift in tone changes and he snaps his eyes back towards mine. I meet his gaze. Slowly, horror blooms on his face, and he shakes his head as he stumbles back.

“No!”

“It’s true. And if it isn’t yet, then every day spent with them in your condition will simply make it inevitable. You take one more step in that house, spend one more day with your family, and you will kill them with you.”

He truly drops the hoe this time and covers his mouth, loud sobs shaking his being.

What I’ve said is cruel, but not a lie. Tuberculosis sweeps up anyone in close contact with it. Any time a person went to a part of New York where the infection had broken out, they covered their face and washed afterwards, to try and stem the tide of the disease. Out here, though, where people are so few and far between, its likely that they would not know to do this. He’s likely infected them already, with nothing to be done about it. _Poor, dumb people._

But, that still doesn’t solve the money issue. As feeble as Strauss looks, he is likely a man who is not to be trifled with. Which means that, some way or another, the money needs to make its way back to him.

I thumb at a ring on my finger and pause. Thomas Downes makes eye contact with me but says nothing. I doubt the same plan is not forming between us, but we are likely coming to the same conclusions. I sigh, knowing what I’ll likely have to do.

“Mr. Downes, I think I know what we can do. And you won’t like it.”

* * *

 

Screams echo through the meadow, and I can hear Arthur running up behind me to see what all the commotion is.

“I ain’t got it, you cold bitch, now get!”

“I ain’t leaving without it, you weasel! Fork it over!”

“You ain’t getting’ that money from me alive!”

“What in the almighty Hell is going on?!” Arthur yells, looking between the two of us. Downes’s family is finally out of the house, running towards the field. He holds up a hand, and his middle aged wife and teenage son stop in their tracks. They seem shaken by the events happening in the field.

I take a deep breath, ready for my part of the plan. “You rat bastard, never even intended on paying us back!”

“Thomas, what is going on? What can’t you pay back?” his wife exclaims, reaching out towards him. He ignores her.

“I ain’t got it, so you might as well kill me,” Downes says in a low voice, glancing towards his family.

“That’s a good option, Mr. Downes, and one we’re inching towards every second you don’t pay your dues!”

He pretends to think for a bit, then makes a meaningful glance towards his family. “Will my life pay for the debt?”

I pretend to consider, then nod. “I believe it will. Herr Strauss is angered enough that that’ll likely do.”

“No!” His son shouts and runs towards the fence, but Arthur, even not understanding the plan, draws his gun on him.

“Now, you don’t take a step further, boy. Ain’t nothin’ here that has to do with you.” This comes out in a growl, and the boy shrinks away. His wife seems to understand what is about to happen, and begins to weep.

“Thomas, please-“

“Edith, listen to me. Remember the first night we got here, with the tree?”

Edith doesn’t respond.

“Edith, do you remember?!” he spits at her, then turns his head to cough away from them. She steps forward a bit, but Arthur moves the gun to her.

“Yes,” she breaths, racking sobs escaping her throat.

“When this is done, pack up and find that tree again. Take my journal with you. Read it. Do you swear it?”

She hesitates, but takes in his words and nods.

“Good. You take care of your mother, Archie. You hear?”

The boy nods, and wraps an arm around his mother.

“Get her back into the house. I love you most.” The last part is in a whisper, and Thomas Downes’s sobbing family makes its way back into the house. He turns towards me.

“It’s time.”

“I know,” he replies, “please make it quick.”

“I’ll do my best, but hold still,” I say sardonically, and he chuckles a bit with a cough.

I thumb a knife from my belt and aim for him. “Thanks for this, Downes.”

“No, thank you, Daisy,” he responds earnestly, then closes his eyes.

I reach back, aim, loose my breath.

And throw.

* * *

 

After plucking my knife from his heart and positioning him on the ground so he didn’t look so mangled, we leave the scene. My heart is racing.

We just leave from the other side of the woods when a bloodcurdling shriek comes from the Downes’ house. I grasp at Arthur and he spurs Laya to go faster.

We rip through the prairie, across grasses and bushes, through streams and past others. I find that I’m shaking badly, and that my cheeks are wet.

Laya crosses a larger river, and I only tug at Arthur’s coat to tell him what I need. He reins Laya in and I all but fall of her side into the water.

Arthur dismounts to find me vomiting in the rushing stream, sobbing through every part of it. After my belly is empty of old alcohol and porridge, I begin to scrub furiously at my hands. Anything to get the infected blood away. I can’t see through the tears. I begin to grab at the sand to use as an abrasive when Arthur takes my hands.

I hadn’t even noticed him kneeling beside me, but there he is. Fully wet like me. He rubs gently at my fingers, getting the last of the blood off. It’s so soft and hesitant, which is what makes me off guard for the harsh and accusing sound of his voice.

“Explain. What the hell was that.”

It wasn’t a question, but a demand. “Now, I stood by you back there, Daisy, not knowin’ your grand scheme or nothin’. Pulled a gun on a likely innocent kid and mamma. I’m owed an explanation.”

I swallowed, trying to compose myself enough to speak.

“H-he knew he was dying. Could see as much in his eyes. But, I told him that every day he remains with his family, the more likely he is to infect them. And they may spread it to others, and them to others, until this beautiful place is utterly ruined. So, I gave him an out, and he asked for something in return.”

Arthur doesn’t speak, so I take it as permission to continue.

“I kill him, and in return his debts are paid. At least we’ll tell Strauss that the money came from him,” I say, swallowing again. He grips my hands slightly. “We let his family go without paying the debt, and he will save New Hanover from his affliction.”

He sighs and seems to relax. “Doesn’t save you, though. What you did was mighty tough.”

For some reason, this makes me laugh. My sobs are replaced by psychotic laughter that bubbles through my chest.

I look up through my tears and Arthur is looking at me, completely incredulous. He must think I’ve lost it.

“Arthur, killing him wasn’t tough _enough_!” I nearly yell this, watching his eyes widen. “And that scares the shit out of me!”

I continue to laugh, still not knowing why. His hands have stilled over mine, but then he uses them to wrap around me and press me to his chest. The contact is warm and jolts me from whatever I’m feeling, and my hysterical laughs turn again into sobs.

We just sit there for a while, him holding me and me trying to hold myself together.

It feels like hours pass, with us crouched in the stream gripping onto reality, when Arthur deems me stable enough to pull back a bit. I miss his soothing warmth immediately.

“We’re gonna catch plague ourselves if we stay in this river much longer,” he remarks, pulling me to my feet. I giggle a bit and wipe my nose on my sleeve. I’m sure I look a mess, but can’t find it in me to care.

Laya waits on the banks of the river as we climb out, and Arthur helps me onto her back. I thank him quietly, and he hesitates before climbing on in front of me.

“Y’know, in this life, lives need to be taken. And I’ve taken my fair share.”

He looks rueful at this, and I can’t see his eyes under the brim of his hat. “But, the act itself ain’t the tough part. That’s pullin’ a trigger, or throwing a knife, drawing a bow. Never been the hard part for me, and that’s likely what felt easy for you.”

He pushes his hat back and looks me in the eye now. “But it’s the livin’ with what you’ve done that’s hard. Livin’ with the fact that it’s always too easy, and what that means about yourself. That you’re bad, and damned. Through and through.”

I feel tears fall down my cheeks again. They’ve likely worn tracks into the flesh of my face, but I let them fall anyway. And I reach out and place a hand on Arthur’s cheek. He stills immediately at the contact.

“I think it’s the remorse, the haunting, that makes you _good,_ not bad,” I reply earnestly, finally feeling slightly better about what I’ve done. Knowing that someone else may have felt this before is comforting. “I’m not good by any means, but I’m certainly not evil. And neither are you.”

He breaks eye contact, but doesn’t move enough to jostle the hand on his cheek. I take this as cause to continue.

“You are a product of your upbringing as much as me, and we have to play the cards we’ve been dealt. It’s how we atone. The fact that we’re even able to recognize what is bad makes things slightly better.”

He looks back up at my face for a while, measuring my words. Then, he nods, and places a hand over mine. I don’t need more of a thank-you than that, and I smile softly at him.

He climbs in the saddle and we ride north.

* * *

 

We make it into a tiny town called Strawberry, nestled in the Grizzlies. It’s significantly colder up here than down in the valley, but it’s really charming here.

Arthur reasons that if we come up here, we’ll draw less attention. And will avoid Strauss finding out the con we are about to pull.

I go into the general store and sell the ring on my finger. It’s worth quite a bit, much more than the loan Downes had, and I decide to buy a copy of _Around the World in 80 Days_ to read to Jack. I also refill Arthur’s ammo stores, as well as purchasing a fancy new pen for him. He stocks up too, buying me a hat much like his. I decidedly hate it, but decide to wear the stupid thing, both to not offend him as well as for protection from the sun.

We make our way back to Horseshoe Overlook as night falls, and drop by Strauss’s tent to give him the payment. He gives us a suspicious look, asks how it went, but doesn’t question any of the afternoon’s events.

I struggle not to break into nervous, hysterical laughs again as we walk away, and Arthur grabs my elbow to keep me under control, but I look up to see a wild grin on his face.

When we’re far enough away, he turns to me, but is interrupted by John and Charles near the horses. He sighs, doffs his hat at me, then struts to join them.

Despite his own thoughts on the matter, Arthur is a good man. Who thinks he’s bad, but underneath all the bravado and smoke and mirrors lays a heart of gold.

I smile as I watch the three men mount their horses and ride off through the woods towards town. I make my way back towards my tent to sleep the day off.

First, though, I stop at Dutch’s tent, dropping the rest of the wad of cash from my ring into the contributions box.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuberculosis.... who's she? I don't know her....
> 
> thanks for reading!


	8. i spent it in good company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is now from "The Parting Glass" by the Wailing Jennys. I ran out of good lyrics from "Irish Boy" so I'm switching gears. 
> 
> School year is nearly done, and doing just about anything but sleeping feels like pulling teeth. More frequent updates to come during the summer, where I get two months off from teaching (thank god).

_After being called on a mission, I made sure to dress accordingly before I met with the other agents in the lobby. I adjusted my silk blouse and ensured that it was tucked into my skirt before heading downstairs, where I knew the coach was waiting for me. As usual, Dwight and Colin were there, standing by the door._

_“Miss McCormack, you look lovely as always,” Dwight practically purred, grabbing my hand to kiss. I screwed up my face to make myself look flattered, but I’ve known their flattery was filled with empty promises for years. Only self-preservation prevented me from yanking my hand out of his foul grip._

_Colin, who was slightly less patronizing but less sympathetic, pushed the door open and held it for me. I led the men to the coach, where Dwight goes and opens the door for me. He offered his hand, which I pretended not to notice and pass by as I climbed into the coach. Dwight, for certain, did not miss the snub, but did not say anything._

_Once the three of us were in the coach, Colin knocked on the ceiling and we took off across the busy New York streets. He then handed me the file, which I flipped open._

_“This one shouldn’t be too complicated. A Senator’s looking to be reelected, but is having a hard time finding constituents. He believes his chief of staff has been paid to lead him astray by the other candidate, and has therefore paid us to find the truth.”_

_“And, if need be,” Dwight added, brushing a hand by my cheek to wind a piece of hair behind my ear, “convince him to rejoin the Senator’s side in earnest.”_

_I did my very best to not flinch away from his hand on my face, mostly ignoring the roiling disgust in my belly. I tried not to think about the meaning of the word “convince” as Dwight meant it._

_“Any tastes I can play to?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible, scooting closer to the window. Dwight chuckled, knowing what was coming, and Colin began describing the man’s tastes as “younger than most would go,” and I got the idea quick enough, turning more towards the window to watch the city go by._

_A young mother and daughter were walking on the sidewalk, grubbily garbed but seemingly happy. The girl skipped down the walk and the mother laughed amiably at her daughter’s antics._

_Then, a sharp wind blew and took the scarf off the mother’s head, revealing smooth, dark red hair, tied high on her head with a length of white ribbon. My heart dropped, and the little girl ran to grab the scarf, bouncing dark hair flowing behind her. I tried, and failed, to ignore the memories flooding my vision. The cottage, a rose garden, a stream flooding the drive. I quickly pushed them aside._

_The coach is suddenly stifling, despite it being early fall. I was sorely tempted to open a window, but Dwight and Colin would not have it, “it would compromise the mission,” most likely._

_“Daisy, did you hear any of that?” Colin asks, condescendingly._

_The mother and the girl are seared into my vision, walking back down the avenue hand in hand, and it took several deep breaths to carry me away from the memories fighting to take over. A small bottom bunk in a creaking cabin, terrible coughing, stifling heat, rats-_

_“I’m sure it was riveting, Colin, but I’ve dealt with Mr. Brown’s ilk before,” I said, wrenching my gaze from the window and pulling the pins from my tightly-wound hair. I tucked them into my pocket, allowing my long, dark mahogany tresses to flow down my back. I went about pulling off the long sleeved coat I had on, going for the white, sheer blouse underneath. Most of my arms were exposed, which will play to the naïve look I was trying to achieve._

_Colin hums, impatient. “That may be, but we need this. The influence to be won-“_

_“I’m sure the Agency has plenty of Senators and all kinds in Washington in its pockets, perhaps even Mr. McKinley him-“_

_I was interrupted by a hand that flashed through the air, striking me on the cheek. Dwight placed his white glove back on his hand, and my cheek throbs. It likely won’t leave a bruise, but it will be tough to get my other cheek to blush like that. This was the worst part about him; his unpredictability. His wandering hands and snake-like tongue are terrible, but at least forseeable._

_I place a hand on my burning cheek. This happened enough that Dwight knew exactly how to hit me in order to make it painful, but did not hinder my job._

_“Dwight, that’s quite enough. Miss McCormack knows that the Agency’s dealings above her station are none of her business.” Colin’s admonishment is no more than if he were commenting on the weather. He pulls out the newspaper and lights his pipe. Dwight begins to polish his gun, pointedly looking at me every few seconds._

_I ignored all of this, gazing back out the window. The mother and daughter had vanished. Not unlike my own mother in my life._

_Fifteen minutes later we pulled in front of a seedy pub in Brooklyn, but when Colin confirms that this was the target’s location, the driver pulled about a block ahead, to avoid suspicion._

_Dwight climbed out as soon as the carriage stopped, going ahead to stake out the saloon. The orders usually given to me were to stay for exactly five minutes after Dwight departs, then go to the target’s location. This time is usually passed in awkward silence between Colin and I._

_But, apparently, not this time._

_“Miss McCormack, I just wanted to let you know that the Agency will be making some changes in its New York offices.”_

_I turn to him, confused but not betraying any thought. “Oh?”_

_“Particularly that of reconnaissance. They are adding more street urchins to the roster and have placed Higgins in charge of them, leaving his position open. I am to take his place, and Dwight is to take over for me.”_

Oh, Jesus.

_I was frozen completely solid. Colin gazes at me with those usual, blank eyes. Waits to see my reaction. I can’t help the panic that washed over._

_“Mr. Swanson, you can’t-“_

_“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Comes from headquarters.” He said it so nonchalantly. Like it did not wrench my life apart at the seams._

_I could feel all control over my emotions slip from my fingers. Vulnerability took its place. Dwight, in charge of my actions and jobs, at all times, on top of constantly taking advantage of me and my body, more so than any other agent allowed access to me._

_My life was going to go from hell to a living goddamn nightmare._

_“Mr. Brown is waiting, likely liquored up enough for you, so go.” The dismissal was heavy. I numbly opened the door and climbed out._

_I knew that I could use my shakiness, my emotional distress to my advantage here, making myself seem younger and more naïve than my true twenty-four years, but all I could feel was nothing. A dark wasteland, void of all feeling._

_I had a couple of months, at most, before Dwight took over in earnest._

_I either needed to find a way out, or end it all before Dwight could make me his prisoner forever._

_I pushed a hand against the swinging doors, and stepped inside the dim bar._

* * *

 

My eyes fly open, and cold sweat is covering my body. The blankets are half off in the frigid morning, and I sit up to pull them back.

But, the sun’s already up, and I doubt I’ll get more sleep after that.

“Bad dream?” a voice asks, heavy with sleep.

I turn and see Tilly addressing me, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “You could say that.”

She sits up, shaking off Karen’s errant hand on her stomach. “Yeah, I get ‘em too. Likely all us folk here do, knowing our past and all.” She clasps her hands above her head, stretching towards the top of the tent. Avoiding other bodies in the cramped tent. “C’mon, best cure for night terrors is coffee and a day of working to knock you right out.” I smile and follow her out of the tent, where she is making a beeline for the percolator next to the fire.

It has been several weeks since I joined up with the gang, and while living like this is difficult, these have been some of the finest weeks of my miserable life. I rarely walk the camp with boots on, and only really pull on footwear when venturing into town or out to practice shooting. My trousers, which I have found to prefer over skirts and dresses, are rolled to protect them from most of the dirt. My skin has also browned nicely with the sun, and is now, satisfyingly, covered with freckles.

This all was, in part, just to be contrary to the past fifteen years in the Pinkerton’s employ. Always having to be a lady - no, a porcelain doll – for the jobs expected of me. But now, calluses build on my feet and my skin grows hardened to the sun. My hair gets to do whatever it wants, either flowing free and unbound in the breeze, dark waves billowing behind me, or in a loose chignon or plait, preventing the pressure headaches that often plagued me with my tightly bound hair. Oftentimes, before dinner, I can be found pulling twigs and leaves from my tresses, because as much of a tomboy as I am becoming,  I am not completely unleashed from hygiene.

But, physical treasures of this life aside, the best part has been the opportunity to _finally_ discover myself. For so long my life had been about survival, either on the streets or in gangs, then employed by the Pinkertons, always on my own. But now, though it is still about survival, it is also about being able to rely on others to help.

Can’t fully let go of trying to be self-reliant, but being able to help others and be appreciated is enough for now.

I write these thoughts in my journal as we sip coffee together at the fireside. After we finish, Tilly makes me scoot forward so she can sit behind me and begins to comb through my hair. It nearly reaches my lower back now, and her untangling it and brushing her fingers through my scalp feel heavenly.

I thought I was about to go back to sleep when footsteps approach us at the fire. I squint through the emerging sunlight to see it is Charles and Lenny.

“Mornin’, Miss Tilly, Miss Daisy,” Lenny greets, nodding at the both of us. We greet them back.

“Miss Daisy, Hosea wants us to get you back out there for target practice,” Charles drawls, already loaded up with his sawed off shotgun, bow, and tomahawk. I roll my eyes at him.

“Not discouraged by my complete lack of skills yet?” I say sarcastically.

“Your complete lack of skills is the point, Daisy. We live a dangerous life, and you need to be ready.” He either missed my sarcasm or ignored it.

I sigh, then stand. “Oh, alright. Let me get my boots and knives, I’ll meet up at the horses.”

I wave goodbye to Tilly and gather my things, saddling up behind Lenny on Maggie, his mustang. Lenny seems to be much more cautious when riding with me than Arthur has been, but that’s likely because Maggie is temperamental, and tends to throw Lenny at the first sign of any trouble.

“Least, that’s Lenny’s excuse,” Karen had confided with me one night, getting an empty beer bottle thrown at us across the fire from the young man.

The ride is uneventful, and we meet with Hosea at the same rundown shack we’ve been coming to for weeks to practice shooting. It’s near Rhodes, which has proven to be a bit of a ride, but far enough from any town and certainly from camp to avoid attention.

I jump off Maggie as soon as we’ve stopped and snatch Hosea’s revolver out of his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

 

I don’t actually do all that bad with the revolver, missing the first three but then hitting all of the targets in one shot after that.

Hosea decides that its time for me to graduate to a repeater.

Sometimes, I hate Hosea’s optimism.

When Arthur rides up, I’m messaging my shoulder as Charles demonstrates, yet _again_ , where I should direct the kick of the rifle. I’m deciding where I should direct my kick at Charles. My backside still hurts from when the repeater blew me _clear off my feet_ , and my face is still red with humiliation from listening to the three men laugh their asses off.

“Arthur! Just the man for the job! Would you like to take a turn at demonstration?” Lenny asks from my other side. I can’t look at any of them right now.

“Can we use somethin’ other than a Lancaster? Miss Daisy’s no, well, _daisy_ , but that thing’ll knock her on her ass-“

He’s interrupted by the three men erupting with laughter again. I flush with embarrassment again, but can’t help but laugh at Arthur’s confusion. His mouth is agape, and he turns to me.

“Don’t ask,” I say solemnly, pulling out some knives to practice with while the other three gather control again. Lenny has actually fallen to the ground and is rasping with laughter, while Hosea and Charles lean on each other. I sink a knife into the fencepost from ten yards.

“I’m sure you’ll be laughin’ bout all this in due time, Miss Daisy,” Arthur promises, pulling his narrow varmint rifle out of Laya’s saddle. “Ain’t nothin’ in the world too serious to be laughed at after a time, I reckon. Let’s try this instead, let these boys compose themselves.”

I snatch the varmint rifle from his hands, still sour, but thankful that this rifle seems to be much lighter than the Lancaster.

“This one’ll only be good fer killin’ game - won’t be worth it to use on another person, but it’ll help ya practice ‘til we find suitable replacement. Here’s how ya hold it to minimize drawback, so we don’t make our friends here suffocate from laughter with another incident.”

Arthur is patient as he guides the rifle to my shoulder, spacing my hands apart along the rifle with his own. He explains that with a repeater, your hands need to be closer together to manage the lever, but rifles need the space.

“Aimin’ is just like with a revolver, though, so only one thing to learn there. Deep breath, relax, exhale, and shoot.”

I do this and pull the trigger. The pebble-sized bullet hits the top of a bottle, blasting off the neck but leaving the body intact.

I sigh with relief and smile up at Arthur, to find him smiling down at me as well. “Well done, Miss Daisy.”

I finally notice the silence around us, and find the other men staring at us. I cough a bit and nudge away from Arthur, who removes his hands from my shoulder and lower back. I hadn’t even noticed them there.

“Well, ya hit a target, seems like enough for today, Daisy. We’ll meet you back at camp,” Hosea chirps, guiding Lenny and Charles away. Disappointment rings through me.

“Charles, what about what you promised?” I cringe a bit at my whiny voice, feeling like a petulant child. After what felt like my first seventy misses with the Lancaster, I could only be encouraged to continue practicing with Charles promising to show me how to throw a tomahawk.

“Next time, Daisy. Its serious business, and much as I want to, that image of you being thrown by the rifle is preventing me from taking anything serious right now.”

I scowl at him, and send venomous waves of emotion through the air as they ride away. From a distance, I can see Hosea lean over to the other two to say something, then hearing laughter erupt again.

“Well, the Van der Linde school of Outlawin’ and General No-Goodedness doesn’t have to end here today,” Arthur chimes in from the fence, wrenching the knife from the post. “I got somethin’ might interest you.”

I look at him quizzically, and he answers my unspoken question.

“’Bout time you learned to ride on your own.”

* * *

 

He took me out to a wide prairie surrounded by cliffs. He went to “fetch somethin’” and left me on my own for a bit. There were some nice wildflowers blooming in the early spring afternoon, so I set about picking them.

I heard hooves before I looked up, so I placed the flowers in my satchel before standing. I turn to see that Arthur has an additional horse, but not just any horse. The biggest, meanest looking black Shire stallion I have ever seen.

His fur is shiny and pure black, with no signs of any other coloration anywhere. He looks as if Arthur pulled him straight from the midnight sky.

He then reaches forward from the reins and tries to bite Arthur’s hat off his head, missing only when Arthur quickly ducks away.

I love him already.

“He’s beautiful! This is the horse Hosea wanted you to sell?” I ask, still admiring the stallion but unsure how to approach him.

“Yeah, seemed like a waste to put him in front of a plow somewhere, so I held onto him. Caused me nothin’ but trouble, and the stable hands hate him, so I thought I’d give ‘em a break.”

“Wait,” I say, incredulous, “you want me, a person who’s never ridden, to ride _him_?”

Arthur turns to pat the horse, who whinnies but accepts the pats on his neck. “Sure. You ride him, and you can ride any horse you need. ‘Sides, he hates men, and I ain’t seen him approached by a lady yet.”

I smile wryly. “Be careful who you’re calling “lady”, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckles, then motions for me to approach the horse. He watches carefully as I raise a hand to the horse, keeping the reins gripped in his hand.

“There ya go, let him smell ya before you touch him. Horses can tell a lot from just a little, so make sure you give him some time to get used to ya.”

The horse throws his head as I get closer, and I jump a bit, but continue my approach. I get close enough for the horse to make the next move, and he pushes his head forward to sniff my hand. Likely to look for treats. Or to bite it off.

“Good. Probably good to pat him, now.”

I move to the opposite side of Arthur, slowly stretching my hand up to put on the horse’s neck. The top of Arthur’s head barely reaches the top of the horse’s back, so he towers over me, and I nearly have to get on my toes to reach him.

But, his fur is smooth and silky, and heated from the sun. Powerful muscles ripple at my touch, but smooth after a few gentle strokes.

“That’s good, boy!” Arthur encourages from across the horse, who whinnies in response. I continue to pat and stroke his neck, feeling a bit more confident in this insane thing I’m doing.

“Right, reckon it’s time,” Arthur murmurs, walking in front of the horse to get to my side. “Let’s get you up there.”

I swallow, and don’t move my hand for fear of what the horse will do. “You think I’m ready?” My voice wavers, and I swallow again.

“’Course you are. Ready as anyone can be to ride the biggest damn horse alive,” he replies nonchalantly, and moves to pick me up. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I think part of riding a horse is being able to get on myself.”

He nods, then moves back a bit, still holding the reins. “Right. I think I got the stirrups at the right length, so just put your foot in this one and haul yourself over.”

I put my foot in the stirrup, but that puts my leg in such a ridiculously high angle that I can’t even put weight on it. “What now?!”

“Uh, well, I guess you can use the saddle horn to pull yourself up,” Arthur says, clearly trying to hold back laughter at my position.

I ignore that and reach up to grab the horn, but doing so makes me jump off the ground. I’m now hanging from the horse, clinging to the horn with a single foot in the stirrup, and _he doesn’t like it_. He immediately starts to stomp and move.

“Arthur!” I am fully panicking now, holding onto the horn for dear life.

“Don’t yell, he don’t like that! Just swing your other foot over and set yourself down!”

With all the strength I have, I throw my other leg over the saddle, use it to lever myself into a sitting position, and put my foot in the other stirrup. _Holy shit, I did it!_

I voice this, and Arthur smiles.

“You did just that, honey. Now, horses can sense fear and it just makes ‘em more skittish, so never show him you’re scared. You have to be the captain and him your worker. So,” and he hands me the reins to hold on to, “let’s get you out to sea.”

Arthur walks around the horse, giving me time to roll my eyes at what he just said. He’s giving me little tips on my positioning in the saddle; keep my heels down so the pressure is on the balls of my feet in the stirrup, hold the reins behind the horn so I don’t lose them, squeeze with my knees, and more.

“Now, all you got to do to get him to move is nudge him with your heels, and he’ll know what to do.” Arthur steps back and watches me expectantly. I hold my breath and do it.

To my complete surprise, the horse starts going forward, slowly. I tap with my heels again, and the horse sets off in a fast walk. A wide smile spreads on my face.

“Arthur!”

“I see ya! Now, use the reins and your legs to turn him around!”

I do this, and the horse changes direction, turning left back towards Arthur. He keeps the pace until we reach Arthur again, who grabs the reins and beams up at me.

“Well, that ain’t too bad, Miss Daisy!” he laughs, patting a hand on the horse’s neck. “You’re a natural!”

“Arthur, he was just walking.”

“Yeah, but he barely did that for _me_ , and you’re a beginner, so take that as a blessin’,” he replies, but is cut off from saying anything else when a light _rattling_ comes from beyond the bush.

Immediately, the horse nearly bucks and takes off at a breakneck speed, ripping the reins from Arthur’s hand and nearly sending my flying off the back of the saddle.

Everything around me is a blur as the landscape flies by, and I have no way of stopping the horse without the reins. Instinct takes over, and I dig with my knees into the horse’s sides to anchor myself to him, hugging myself down by his neck.

“Please, please stop!” I beg him, but he pays no heed, now making a wide turn. His hooves break through dirt and scrub, sending clouds of it billowing up into my face, making me cough and my eyes water.

But, beyond my swimming vision, I can see that we are now heading towards one of the prairie’s drop-offs towards a river in a valley below. I can’t stop him, and he’s heading right for a cliff.

The horse’s panicked breaths and his hooves on the ground are all I can hear, and I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for him to throw me to my death. Then, up on the side, I can hear other hooves and Arthur’s voice, encouraging Laya to go faster.

“Daisy, _hold on_!” he yells, and I don’t even make a snarky comment for all the terror running through my veins.

I hear something whip by my head and the horse is suddenly jerked to the left, coming to an abrupt stop. He immediately bucks back on his hind legs and finally sends me flying off the back, landing with a painful _thud_ on the ground.

I’ve slid off the back of a horse, but never thrown and never by a horse this large. The breath is driven from my lungs on impact, leaving me wheezing in the dust.

Arthur coaxes the big horse to stay next to Laya, then runs to my side, getting to his knees to my side. “Daisy, are ya hurt?”

I’m still gasping and can’t form words, so I manage to simply shake my head. He helps me to sit and rubs small circles on my back, quietly encouraging me to breathe slowly.

Eventually, I catch my breath and go limp. “What just happened?”

“Rattlesnake, I assume. Big boy ain’t so tough after all,” he shoots a reproachful glare at the horse, who takes no notice. “You did real well, considerin’.”

I shake my head again, and he takes that for a reply.

Arthur gets back to his feet and begins winding up the lasso he used to stop the horse, placing it back at his side. “Well, maybe he ain’t the best choice for beginnin’ riders. You can ride with me so we can go drop him off in Valentine-“

“Arthur, I will buy him off of you right now.”

He turns and stares at me, mouth agape. “After what jus’ happened? You still want this devil?”

I nod slowly, pushing myself to my feet. Maybe one of these days I’ll go to sleep with no bruises and sore muscles. “Yeah. Someone’s got to teach him manners, and that there’s scarier things in the world than snakes. Plus, he’s magnificent, and completely wasted in a stable.”

Arthur nods, and reaches to grab his reins again. “You ain’t wrong on that account.”

“How much do you want for him?” I ask, reaching for my satchel, hoping the money didn’t fall out in the struggle.

“Nah, you don’t need to give me your money. You can have him,” Arthur says, completely ignoring my protests. “You’d be doin’ me a favor, stable’s been chargin’ me extra what for all his “bad attitude” and such. ‘Sides, he already likes you more than me. Just take good care of him, and he’ll love ya forever.”

I nod. “Well, thanks-“

“Ain’t no need to thank me! Just take care of him,” Arthur interrupts, a sparkle in his blue eye. I snap my mouth shut and just smile instead.

We saddle up again, him on Laya and me on my new horse, and we make our way back to camp, making sure to avoid any suspicious brush where new spooks could lurk.


	9. but since it falls unto my lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy makes a decision

When we arrived back at camp, Arthur went about showing me how to saddle a horse, walking me through taking the saddle off the huge horse and strapping it back on to Laya. Then, Dutch called him over, and they and a couple other riders headed off towards Valentine. 

I stayed for a bit with my new horse, mulling over what to call him, when Miss Grimshaw yelled at me from across the camp, “that’s Kieran’s job, come do somethin’ useful before I die of old age!”, and that’s where I found myself sitting next to Tilly and Karen, trying to hold in giggles at Susan.

A couple of weeks have passed since then, and nothing remarkable has happened. I still haven’t named the stallion yet, but I’ve ridden out on him a couple more times. He seems to like me just fine, so long as I feed him enough apples on the ride. Still hates snakes though, since any time something remotely snake-like turns up, he bucks me at first sign and I have to spend the afternoon chasing him down all over again.

The gang seems fine as well, but I can feel that they’re getting antsy. Tilly chalked it up to being in one place for too long, which I don’t understand. There’s a sense of security and familiarity when in one place for a while, and I have started considering Horseshoe Overlook a new home.

“That’s the issue, though. The security you speak of is a false one. We only know it from experience,” Tilly explained when I asked her about it. “Something is going to happen in the next couple of weeks to make us scatter and run again, its only a matter of time.”

So, they continue with their lives at camp, completing chores as normal but ready to flee at first sign. I think it’s a bit ridiculous, but I’ve never known this life, so I need to trust their instinct. After all, what would a city-slicker like me know about needing to flee the law by the seat of my pants? They seem like they’re professionals at it by now, if what I’ve heard about the aftermath of the Blackwater job is indication enough.

The morning of Dutch’s inquiry caught me deep in my new book, _Frankenstein_ , with my feet dangling over the edge of the cliff by camp. I really haven’t been able to sleep much since joining the gang for some reason.

Well, not some reason. The nightmares have been terrible, and getting worse. They’ve never been so clear and concise before, like I’m reliving the worst moments of the last fifteen years of my life. They seem to be feeding off of everyone else’s anxiety and restlessness, and there’s not a whole lot I can do to stop them besides not sleep. I’ve gained enough trust to begin guard shifts, which I get as often as I can at night, and getting sloshing drunk doesn’t do anything but make them worse, with a nice hangover in the morning.

The Creature had just gotten to threatening to kill Victor’s entire family when a twig snaps behind me, breaking the silence of the early morning and making me jump out of my skin. Then, scrambling away from the cliff edge when my sudden movement slid me closer to it.

Javier is laughing quietly behind me, and I pray that _maybe, one day, my clumsiness will not be the center of humor for this camp_. I stand, dust myself off, and brush past him to go sit by the fire and pour another cup of coffee.

“Daisy, wait, wait, I’m sorry,” he apologizes in his accented English, chuckling while following me to the scout fire. “You’re just so easy sometimes.”

I glare at him, but can’t stay mad at the face he’s making, so I just sigh instead. “It’s okay. The book I’m reading is terrifying, so that doesn’t help.”

“Oh?” he asks, clearly curious about it. I decide that there’s nothing better to do, and the last time I started chores this early got me a swift kick from the others, who were both woken up by the noise I was making and also forced to start early by a zealous Grimshaw, trying to match my work. I begin explaining the story so far to him, and he starts to clean one of his guns, still nursing his coffee next to me. He stops me occasionally with a question, but other than that he is silent.

“And now, the Creature is threatening to kill Frankenstein’s whole family if he does not make him a mate,” I finish, and Javier visibly shudders at my words.

“Now I see what you meant earlier. Lucky you didn’t scare yourself off the damn cliff,” he laughs quietly.

“Eh, I bet you would have done Micah a pretty big favor, doing that,” I reply, a bit shocked that I’m joking about him so soon.

“Would have royally pissed off every other person here, though. Hell, Hosea might have thrown me off after you, right after Arthur gutted me,” he teases back. I don’t have anything to say to that, so I smile at him and turn back to my book.

“Why don’t you read it to me?” he asks suddenly. I look at him quizzically, and he explains, “I’m already invested, and I want to see where this crazy woman is taking the story.”

I always enjoyed reading to the Pinkerton kids back in New York, and at the smaller kids in the orphanage, so I oblige him.

* * *

 

By the time the rest of the gang starts their day, we’ve gathered quite the crowd around us. Javier asked to read for a bit, and we’ve been trading off occasionally. The other camp members just eat breakfast, sip their coffee, and listen, but get still at the mention of the Creature and jump visibly when something frightening happens.

I’ve taken to mending one of the pockets on a shirt of mine when Dutch approaches the campfire, seeking out the percolator, two cups in hand. He hovers for a while, listening to Javier’s reading. When he gets to a break, Dutch speaks up.

“Miss Daisy, I’d like to speak with you at your earliest convenience, if you would be so kind.”

I’m a bit confused about _why_ he would want to talk to me, but I’m in no position to deny Dutch anything. “Sure thing, I’ll be over in a bit.”

He nods and walks back over to his tent, where I can see him hand the second cup to Molly, who smiles at him and gets completely ignored.

Abigail gives me a quizzical look from across the fire, but all I can do is shrug. I know as much as she does about what Dutch could possibly want from me.

Javier finishes the chapter we’re on, and I take the book, promising that we will finish the story later.

I make my way over to Dutch’s tent, feeling a bit improper in my bare feet, when Hosea waves me over to the table. I turn and stop in front of him.

“Daisy, before you go in there, I just want to let you know that you can say no. No matter what he says, no matter how enticing it sounds,” he says solemnly, then laughs a bit at my wide-eyed expression. “No, nothing like that, I promise. Miss O’Shea is all he needs in that department.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“If I’m guessing correctly, Dutch is about to offer you a job for the gang. From the way he described it, it may not be something you want to get yourself tangled up in. He created this gang with the intent to ensure free will in its members. Remember that you will always have a choice, Daisy.”

His dark eyes are frozen onto mine, and I nod in reply, not really knowing what to say in response to his cryptic message. He turns back to his own book, which looks like a philosophy treatise, and I turn to start towards Dutch’s tent again. I feel Hosea’s eyes on me, and it does nothing to quell my nerves.

I push the tent flap to the side to find Dutch sitting on the chair in the corner, and he motioned for me to sit on a chair opposite of him. Molly is sitting on the bed, but leaves as soon as I sit. Whether that’s because she doesn’t want to get involved in gang business or because she hates me, I’m not sure.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed why I’ve asked you in here,” Dutch starts, placing his hands on his knees. I sit stock still.

“Hosea gave me some indication, but I’m not clear on everything.” He nods in confirmation. My gut wrenches.

“There’s been some suspicious activity in Valentine. Nothing illegal, like we would care or interfere if it were,” he adds sarcastically, and I chuckle more to break the tension than anything. “Mostly men dressed too fine for a town like Valentine.”

“So,” I start, quirking a brow, “men in suits has you suspicious?”

“Yes, as they well should, Miss Daisy. See, when we left Blackwater, we had many, uhm, _interested parties_ on our tail. The Blackwater sheriff and his force, of course, the O’Driscolls, and, for some reason, your old compatriots, the Pinkertons. Who are well known in having a fine, holier-than-thou wardrobe while they attend to their business.” He bites down onto his cigar and lights it with a match. “We would appreciate it very much if you went into town and confirm that none of these suspicious characters are any of our more malignant enemies.”

He waits for a bit, and I let him. This is exactly what I did not want to get back into when I left New York. Reconnaissance, intelligence, and the rest of the horrible things I did to survive are behind me. Were behind me. _Should be_. But I am falling down the slippery slope I found myself in when I was ten, desperate to fit in anywhere and find some kind of consistency.

I do not intend to make the same mistakes again.

“Mr. Van der Linde, I’m sure that all you’ve said is exactly as it seems, but I left this life behind me, with no intention of going back.”

“And I understand that, my girl. These are troubled times, and we all need to make sacrifices in order for the family to survive. Even being a newer member, surely you can see that is all we are trying to do?”

I know this, but I can also hear the double meaning in his words. _Do as I say, or the family will suffer because of your willfulness._

I sigh, and take a deep breath before exhaling, trying to center myself before trying to get to a satisfying conclusion. “I understand what it means to survive, and I want the gang to thrive. And it’s not that I don’t have the skills you require. I _can’t do it_. For my own wellbeing. I will do just about anything else, but my soul is scarred enough without rending more tears through these actions.”

At my final words, his mind seems to click on my meaning, and his face darkens. “What actions are you referring to, Daisy?” He stands and paces for a bit before turning to me.  “Are you suggesting that I would actually ask you to _do those things?_ The horrific things that your fucking _captors_ forced you to do?!” He’s angry now, voice raising with each word. “Is that what you think of me?”

The betrayal is clear in his voice. “No, of course not. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness-“

“I am out of options! I would love to send Abigail or Tilly, or any of the others, but they’re too recognizable in town by now, and the boys can’t go because of Blackwater. If it turns out to be Pinkertons, they’d be shot on sight!” I wince at his tone, knowing that he’s right. “You can see how restless everyone around here is, and these strange men are doing nothing to calm them. So figure out who these men are. You won’t even need a disguise, you don’t even need to wear shoes, for Chrissakes. Just find out if these men want to hurt our family.”

His sincerity shines through each word. I try to swallow the lump of fear that has formed in my throat.

How could I be so ignorant? Of course anyone would want to take advantage of the resources at their disposal, and Dutch is an excellent resource finder. Whether it’s Hosea’s brain and propensity for dramatics, or Mary-Beth’s pickpocketing skills, Javier or Micah’s alternating styles of ruthlessness, or Arthur’s willingness to do anything to protect and provide. Dutch has a knack for finding a use for each person, playing off their skills and motivations. I may have a skill, but lack motivation.

But, he’s not said anything about having to _actually interact_ with any of these men. All I would need to do is find one, eavesdrop on conversation and get at least a hint about their reason for being here, and then reporting back. Like Dutch said, I would not even really need to be in disguise. Besides, with everyone being so cautious and jumpy from staying here too long, it would be a relief to know that these people represent no threat to our livelihood.

And, he’s more than implied that this is one of the only things I can do to actually contribute to the gang. Sure, they have many resources, but I comprise of a filling they need for a certain role in camp. Scouting, more in depth than any of the other women or men could do. Possibly even working up to what I use to do, and excel at, for the Agency.

I shudder at that. I _cannot_ go back there. The Pinkertons allowed their black influence to corrupt hundreds of people, _children_ , in order for ends to meet. People just looking for belonging or the means to provide for their families.

And that seems to be the hurdle that I can’t cross with this request. It seems like it is in perfect service of the family, that I would be protecting them, but I would be used and compromised again, like I promised I never would again.

“I can see that this will require some thought,” Dutch says, jerking me out of my introspection and standing from his chair. “Take tonight and think on it. I’ll look for you tomorrow and see what you think.”

He probably doesn’t even mean it, but my brain connects the dots anyway. _He’ll see if I agree to do this, or if he needs to begin the process of severing me from the gang_.

* * *

 

I try to distract myself after I’ve left Dutch’s tent. It’s been hours and I found that chores were being messed up with my brain’s frenzy. Eventually, when Abigail found me trying to go collect water with the buckets full of blood from Pearson’s tent, she told me to go lay down and get some rest.

I’ve been facing the tent walls ever since, laying on my side with my knees tucked to my chest, listening to my mind and thoughts go in circles, dancing around Dutch’s simple request.

Only when Hosea pokes his head through the tent flap do I finally move.

“You look like you’re in need of a fishing trip,” he comments, looking me up and down.

I rub my eyes, trying to adjust them to the evening light. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a fisher, Hosea.”

“Nonsense, just never tried it before,” he says in a jolly tone. “Besides, there’s rarely a fishing trip with just the intent to catch fish. I’ll ask Javier to come, too, make it a learning experience.”

He winks and backs out of the tent. I’m tempted to go out there and turn him down, maybe in less than savory terms, but I find myself standing at the riverbank in an hour’s time. Javier must have dragged Hosea and I halfway across New Hanover to get to this tiny bend in a stream in the middle of the woods, taking it really slow with my amateur horseback riding skills. But, the tiny brook seems to be teeming with fish.

Not that I am proving to be a natural fisher by any means. Hosea and Javier are having plenty of luck, though. They seem focused on the game before them, so they really haven’t said much since we’ve arrived, pulling fish after fish out of the stream. Javier catches a monster fish and they hoop and holler for a bit, but other than that, fishing has been all about silent contemplation.

Not ideal with the stew of memories running circles in my head.

After a few hours and no luck, barely a nibble on my line, despite plenty of tips from the two men, I take a break and sit on a nearby boulder, watching the two masters work. Eventually, Hosea picks up on my black mood and turns back to me.

“You know, Daisy, fishing is the perfect time for thinking through a complex situation. I often find myself fishing when I’m planning one of our little heists or performances.”

I nod in agreement. The silence for the past couple of hours are clear indication of that.

“It’s also a great time to get something off your chest. Especially if you have a couple of pairs of willing ears to help.”

He smiles, and I see Javier turn and nod. Willing to help me with my problem.

So I explain everything. All that Dutch is asking me to do, everything from my past that complicates it. And they listen in absolute silence, to the point where I think they may be ignoring me. I’m shocked that I haven’t broken down again, but my tears that stem from my past seem to be staunched at the moment. I’ve found a strange, and likely brief, detachment from my past. Probably because the activity of fishing is so contrary to the events of my life in New York. At least, fishing for fish and not information.

 At the end of my explanation, when I take a drink from the stream, Hosea takes a deep breath.

“Daisy, we’ve all done a lot for the gang over the years. Most of it in the best interest of the family, but also most of it is nothing to be proud of. But, there’s one thing that’s kept us all together.”

He turns to look at me, still holding onto the rod. “We all have had a choice in what we can do, and how far we’re willing to go. Dutch has always guaranteed that choice. And it’s a choice that you will have as well.”

It sure didn’t feel like it when I talked with him, but I don’t mention this to Hosea.

“We’ve all struggled with this, how far we should go to provide. And that is always honored.”

I clear my throat, but find my voice shaky when I reply. “But, what if-“

“He would never push that, _hermana_ ,” Javier interjects, seeming to know that I meant pushing me to prostitute myself again, “even if there was no choice, or if you really wanted to. I would do anything for these people, but there are times when there are limits that need to be placed.” He turns back to the river. “Should have happened at Blackwater.”

Hosea nods sagely, and motions for me to stand. “I believe the rest will be up to you to decide. Know that whatever you decide, we will protect you. If you choose to do this, we will be there every step, guarding your back through the entire encounter. If not, then you’ve proven yourself more than useful to us already, as a Van der Linde and as a sister.” He smiles, and holds the fishing pole out to me. “Here, I’ve got one hooked for you, I think you can manage to reel him in.”

I do, under the encouragement of Hosea and Javier, and actually manage to smile when the bluegill guppy is hanging on for dear life on the hook.

I decide to throw him back. And I make my decision.

* * *

 

We travel back to camp well past sunset, and drop the bucket of fish off at Pearson’s wagon. I look around at the busy campsite, everyone finishing with dinner and getting back to the last chores of the day. John and some of the other men are smoking at the scout’s fire, and Javier goes to join them after patting me on the shoulder.

I can see Arthur sitting on the log I often occupy at the edge of camp, pouring over a piece of paper. I decide that I would like his opinion on the matter, but before I can get to him, he jumps up, storms past me without a second glance, gets on Laya and rides towards Valentine. Hosea and I stare after him.

“That was unusual,” I remark, and Hosea hums in agreement.

“He’s always been a bit broody and introspective, but that’s our boy,” Hosea reassures, heading towards the campfire to get some stew. “Besides, makes it much easier for him to play the simpleton.”

Before I can reply, Dutch emerges from his tent and I start towards him. He sees my intensity and immediately backpedals a bit. “Are you angry, Miss Daisy?”

“I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, y'all. Having a new thing called "writer's constipation", wherein a person has the words and the plot and everything in their heads, but CANNOT GET IT OUT. Doesn't help that this is a filler chapter, but there'll be more action coming up soon. 
> 
> Since it's summer break and all, I'll strive to have more regular updates, plus maybe a great new fic starting? We'll see if I can get my shit together enough for that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. alas, it was to none but me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The operation. Warning for self-hate and nasty barroom behavior from men.

Dutch spent the better part of the rest of the day bringing me up to speed on the job. The men started showing up about a week ago, mostly around the two saloons and outside the general store. They’ve been known to case the train station as well, mostly during arrivals and departures. 

I asked about the color of their suits, if they had visible emblems or badges, what kind of weapons they visibly had, down to their general appearance. Dutch described them all as white men, thirties and forties, and very well groomed and kempt. 

“Sounds like Pinkertons,” I remarked, sipping on my third cup of coffee.

“Yes, that or actual government agents, but I suppose that’s your job to discern,” he replied, and dove back into descriptions. 

Eventually my questions got to be fairly specific, like asking about their general behavior or specific physical conditions, so Dutch sent Charles and Lenny into Valentine to get dinner at the saloon and see what they could find. They reported back after dinner, saying that one was older and had a large scar over his eye and was “a big, mean looking cuss.”

Not someone who will easily drop information, probably being a seasoned Pinkerton.

The other one in the saloon Lenny described as “fresh blood,” a tall but skinny man with a shock of blonde hair and a large ring on his right hand. 

“He seemed to be much more, uh,  _ uncomfortable _ in the saloon, kind of wary,” Lenny added, sipping a beer in Dutch’s tent with the rest of us. 

“Yeah, if you call “holier-than-thou” uncomfortable,” Charles mumbled, which actually helped me decide to make him my mark. 

Hosea joined us for dinner, and we all went over the facts once again. Lenny seemed optimistic, like the men were in town for business, and Charles brought up the possibility that if they were Pinkertons, they may be here for the O’Driscolls instead of us. Hosea insisted that no matter what, we needed to find the truth for our own safety. 

However, Dutch insisted on one thing:

“You’re just going in for reconnaissance, to figure if these men are Pinkertons. You are not to speak to them unless they approach you. We don’t need that, and you need more time to heal before you decide to get back into that.” He walked away after that, to go shut himself into his tent until the operation was to begin. 

That was how I now find myself sitting in the Smithfield’s Saloon in “my Sunday best”, which ended up being one of my gowns from New York. I must have lost some weight since leaving, because I constantly pull up the front to cover myself. I am still wearing my new boots, though, but they won’t show with the length of the gown. It also took bathing several times a day for the past two days to get myself mostly clean again, but some of the dust has stained my skin a tan color. No matter, I will play it to my advantage. 

I nod to Charles sitting in the corner by himself, and he makes no move to acknowledge me. Lenny and Sean are both somewhere outside, ready to burst in at any sign of trouble. 

_ Deep breath in, then out.  _ I close my eyes.  _ Detach, shrink, become visible to only one set of eyes. _

The target, the smaller of the two men that Charles and Lenny described, is already at the bar, nursing a beer with a bit of a scoff on his face. Likely thinks himself too good for a place like this.  _ They weren’t kidding about his hair. He must have to wear a hat to prevent blindness of those around him.  _

I place myself at the end of the bar closest to the back of the saloon, and order a wine. 

Although this is my plan, Dutch and Hosea’s directions were clear; stay out of their way, and only size them up and eavesdrop if needed. No interaction. 

The man has no clear identification as part of the Agency, though, and there’s no way I’d be able to recognize him, as I ran in a pretty tight circle just within the New York office. I would have remembered his hair anywhere. 

But as I sit there nursing my wine, I realize that no one is going to join him, not until too late. The man must be here on a break, or just for lunch. No impatient glances at the door, or checking his clock. 

I have to get the information out of him in some way. I’ll not risk my new friends’ safety. So I order a new wine from the bartender, using the wobbliest voice I could manage. 

I start to sniffle and let a few errant tears slide down my cheeks before the barkeep returns with my drink, and he hands me a handkerchief. I thank him quietly, and he nods before turning away. 

My target hasn’t noticed me. I sniff a little louder, dabbing my eyes, and I see him turn from the corner of my vision. I keep faced away from him, releasing a sobbed  _ huff _ , like I’m trying to keep control of myself. 

I hear his stool scoot back against the floor, and the heels of his shoes click as he approaches me. A not so subtle  _ ahem _ comes from Charles’s direction, but I turn just enough to shoot him an “I’ve got this” glance. 

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, is something troubling you?” he asks, in a voice of practiced grandeur that makes me want to vomit. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” I reply shakily, trying to match his voice in pompousness. I glance up at him through my eyelashes and let the front of my dress fall a tad, and  _ feel _ his eyes on me. I resist the shudder that goes through my body. “I’ve just had the most awful week.”

“Really? Why don’t you tell me about it?” he says in a voice that sounds like concern, but betrays his disinterest in what I say. I finally look at his face and see a smile stretch across his mouth, showing crooked, yellowing teeth. I give a small smile back. 

“I don’t want to unload my troubles on you, and I would hate to impose…” I start, batting my eyelashes at him. He chuckles, clearly thinking he’s already won me over. 

“It will be no imposition, rather a pleasure.” He sits as he says this, brushing his hand across my arm. I resist the urge to snatch my arm back, giving him a shy smile instead.

It was this moment that Arthur and Bill both walk in to the saloon. Arthur looks around the saloon, likely looking for Charles, but his eyes meet mine instead. I force my eyes to brush over him in disinterest, and look back at my eager companion. 

I can practically  _ smell  _ Arthur’s confusion, as he hadn’t been in camp during the planning of this operation, and Charles manages to grab his attention before he approaches me. He and Bill go and take their seats, and I can feel Arthur’s eyes bore into the back of my head as Charles whispers urgently to them. 

“Well, I would hate to tell you my woes without getting a proper introduction,” I say demurely, widening my smile. I could see the  _ how did I get so lucky _ thought flash through his eyes, thinking this would end in the bedroom for him. 

“Of course, miss. Name’s Harrison Turner, just landed here on business a few days ago,” he says, nodding his head a little and holding out his hand. 

“I’m Geniveve Coulson, but the right people call me Jenny,” I reply, taking his hand and giving it a gentle shake. “And misfortune landed me here about a week ago.”

I gaze my eyes down again, showing a pretend recollection of past unfortunate events, but he tilts my chin up with a hand. 

“Now, tell me how misfortune made such a beautiful woman fall across my steps?” 

I hear Charles clear his throat again, to get Arthur’s attention from looking at the back of my head too intently, clearly trying to get my attention. I place one of my hands over Harrison’s and start lying. 

“Well, Mr. Turner, my family and I are - were - making our way west, out to Utah or Oregon, whichever of the two. Daddy had a business venture that would ‘change our lives forever’, as he put it. But-” and I dab my eyes again, dramatically. He squeezes my hand to have me continue, but his eyes slide down my dress. 

“But the money was tight. He only bought train tickets at each station, rather than a full trip. So, when the money ran out here in Valentine, he said he would send for me and  _ left _ .” I choke back a sob with the last word, and hold the handkerchief up to my mouth. 

“Oh, you poor thing,Miss Coulson” Harrison purrs, with the most ingenuine sympathy. “You must be so scared.”

“Thank goodness for the Smithfield owners, taking me in like this and helping me get a room at Chadwick farm. I don’t know what I would do if they hadn’t. I’m working here nightly, bringing folks their drinks, and the  _ awful things  _ that happen every night…” I force myself to blush and meet his eyes, and he visibly hides his eagerness to get me upstairs. “Please, even listening to me has helped me so much, but is there  _ anything  _ you could do for me, Mr. Turner?”

He looked pensive, but was clearly just stringing me along. I let another tear slide down my cheek, and moved to wipe it away. 

“Well, Miss Coulson, there is something…” he says, bringing up a hand to his chin to make himself look like he’s thinking  _ really hard _ . I lean in. “I’m in town on some, uhm,  _ swift _ business that will be taken care of in the next couple of days. There’s a group of detestable criminals staying here in Valentine that my employers have hired us to rid of, but that will not take long. After that, we have the option to return back east or to sign a contract to complete a job down in California.”

I make myself look hopeful, raising a bit in my chair and grasping his arm with my free hand. “California, really?”

He smiles. “Yes, and with the money I have coming in, I may be able to scrounge for an extra ticket…” He glances at me, and I perk up, widening my eyes as much as possible. “But you might have to do something for me.”

I give him a sly smile, and look at him through my eyelashes again. He clearly loves that move. “Anything. I would do anything.” 

I bite my lower lip and he inhales sharply, but the saloon doors squeak open and we both turn to see his partner, the scar faced man, walk in, clearly looking for him. 

And is wearing a bright emblem on his chest. A badge I’ve known for the past fifteen years.  _ Got you. _

“Meet me here tonight, and we can work something out,” he says, slowly standing from the stool. I force myself to look crestfallen, and make a couple more tears form in my eyes. 

“Don’t fret, Miss Coulson,” he starts again, grabbing my hand to kiss the back of it, “I will help you in whatever way I can.”

“Please, call me Jenny,” I reply, biting my lip again. His eyes light up. “And thank you, Mr. Turner.”

He walks towards his partner, who looks angry about something, and they both leave the saloon, Harrison looking back and giving me a short wave. 

I force myself to stay at the bar and look pathetic for a little while longer, in case someone is watching. After I finish the last of my wine, I get up and sulk out of the saloon, going to the alley behind the building to change into the clothing I’ve stashed there. With an apparently large number of Pinkertons in town who could report back to Harrison, I can’t be too careful. 

When I finish, Charles, Bill and Arthur are just leaving, and try to approach me when they spot me. I shake my head a little, conveying the message that  _ we don’t need curious eyes seeing us together right now  _ and start to make my way back to the rendezvous point near Horseshoe Overlook on foot. A few minutes later, I hear what I assume are four horses setting off from another road in town. 

But, now that I’m fully alone, the knowledge of what I had just done starts to hit me. 

_ You said you would never go back. Ever. Not to tricking men into bed to gain information.  _

_ But it’s not going to go that far. I likely won’t even meet him tonight, as I have the information I was sent to retrieve.  _

_ That is how it always starts. Then one thing after another leads you back into that old life.  _

_ But it’s not what I  _ want _. It was never what I wanted.  _

_ But it’s the only thing you are good at _ .  _ Useful at.  _

I start to run in hopes of drowning out the argument happening inside of my head, but real tears start rolling down my cheeks. 

It was never going to be possible for me to leave my old life behind. Sure, maybe it’s not for the Agency anymore, and Dutch might be different, but using my body to gain information is now one of the only things I know how to do. My life feels like a giant wheel, going around and around, back to the same patterns as before, until it is spinning out of control yet again. 

And the worst part is that  _ it was in my control _ . All I needed to do was to wait for the scarred man to come and simply eavesdrop on the conversation. But old habits die hard, I suppose. It was so easy to fall back into the life that I hated that I didn’t even notice. Charles even tried to warn me not to. 

Instead, I took the path of least resistance. For no reason. 

_ I’ll never be able to leave that life. _

I fall to my knees just as I reach a small clove of trees, and I can feel the pressure rising in my chest before I let out a scream, ripping through my body until my vision leaves me. 

They can wait at the rendezvous point. They don’t need to see me like this. 

* * *

 

I approach them in the woods half an hour later, feeling disconnected from my body. 

They’re talking quietly, letting their horses graze while they wait for me, but they see me approach. 

“Daisy, you didn’t need to do that, but it probably saved our skins-”

“That guy was so stuck up your ass-”

“Likely would’ve recognized us, if he was a Pinkerton-”

Charles and Bill go back and forth for a while, then just Bill when Charles sees my face. Arthur hasn’t spoken a word, and Lenny just looks confused about the whole ordeal.

I don’t stop, simply walk between them. “They were Pinkertons, there’s a number of them in town here for you or the O’Driscolls. Raid will likely happen soon if action isn’t taken.” I get past them, and Charles starts to follow. 

“Do you know how many are here? Did he mention Blackwater at all?”

“No.”

“Daisy, wait-”

“Tell Dutch what we found. I’ll be along.” 

Charles stops in his tracks, and I continue walking, feeling the three mens’ eyes on my back. 

It takes me another hour to get to camp, and it feels both like an eternity and no time at all has passed. The four horses are back, so they must have come quietly. Or I’m so wrapped up in my head that I didn't even notice them. 

I see Hosea start to stand and approach me, but he sees my face and doesn’t move. 

Thankfully, no one else tries to stop me before I get to the tent, lay on my bedroll, and stare at the canvas until I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I'd post all summer? and then I didn't post for like 5 months? Typical. 
> 
> Anyway, apparently having no time and keeping to a strict routine are the best ways for me to write. that, and the pressure of nanowrimo. I'm still figuring my shit out. 
> 
> My goal for nanowrimo is just to write and edit every day. No word amounts, just write. And I really want to have a weekly update schedule start, maybe not on Tuesdays but we'll see. Sorry this is shorter than normal, but at least I posted lol
> 
> Thanks for sticking around through my bullshit, and if you're new here, thanks for joining in!


	11. to memory now I can't recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Aftermath TM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! I feel a second wind a'comin' (knock on wood) so more updates very soon! Also, sorry that this starts depressing, but to gets better. Be warned that there's hints at sexual trauma right at the beginning, so if you don't want to read it, skip to the first page break. I'll have a summary at the end. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_ He stretched his limbs a bit, not really caring if I was awake or asleep. He wouldn’t stay long after his nap, anyway. Commitment wasn’t his thing, with his actual spouses or with his lovers. At least, that’s what the ledger said.  _

 

_ The weight on the bed shifted as he got up, shuffling around the room looking for clothing items and shoes. I didn’t move a muscle, mind blank and simply observing him with four senses.  _

 

_ When he was satisfied with his state of dress, he lingered for a bit, likely making sure that I remained asleep. Then I heard the door open and shut.  _

 

_ His footsteps receded down the hallway, and I sat up, letting the covers fall from my naked form. The small stack of bills stared at me from his side of the bed. The only thing that went through my mind was that the bastard likely underpaid me.  _

 

_ I leaned over the side of the bed to grab the small sheet of paper, cleverly stashed in my corset, to write what I discovered at the barroom.  _ His boss intends to move some products tomorrow night _ , I wrote,  _ likely opium, but never confirmed. 

 

_ After I wrote the time and a close approximation of the place, based on where he asked to meet up tomorrow, I started to dress again. My mind remained blank. No tears rolled from my eyes.  _

 

_ I hadn’t cried at any operation in at least two years. Since I was fifteen or so.  _

 

_ The meager offering of bills stared up at me as I pulled my shoes back on. I took two of the bills from the top and stash them in the top of my corset, and stashed another in each of my shoes. Colin and Dwight would have noticed if I dared to take more. I think about the gloves I could buy for the children now, with the approaching winter. Maybe a book or two.  _

 

_ As I turned to leave, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder.  _

 

“Daisy.”

* * *

The hand lifts from my shoulder as I gasp awake, turning violently onto my side with eyes wide open. 

 

Dutch sits on an overturned crate in the middle of the tent, with Hosea standing near the entrance. His hand is still outstretched, but he quickly puts it back on his knee. 

 

I don’t bother to sit up. Simply rest my head back down, facing them instead of the side of the tent, and wait for my heart to stop racing. 

 

“Sorry to startle you, Miss Daisy. Charles brought us up to speed on what happened as much as he could, but he didn’t catch everything that went on between you.”

 

The sun beams through the front of the tent, telling me that it is likely already evening. I slept for a long time. The outline of a person sitting on a stool casts a shadow against the tent flaps, hunched over and wearing a hat. 

 

Dutch and Hosea remain silent, as do I. I pretend to be bleary eyed, using waking up as an excuse to not speak. 

 

“So, could you tell us what else happened? We know the man approached you…” Dutch continued, putting his elbows on his knees and leaning towards me. 

 

I clear my throat, and I see the shadow twitch. “He was a Pinkerton. As was his partner, and likely most of the larger force of men in town. Had that air about them.” My voice sounds hollow and empty. 

 

“So it’s true.” Dutch glances back at Hosea, who doesn’t make any move to acknowledge him. He stares at me instead, and Dutch turns back to me. “Were you able to glean their purposes here?”

 

“Could be here for us, or the O’Driscolls. Said something about “detestable criminals” that they’re here to get rid of.”

 

“Guess that’s us,” Dutch remarks, turning towards Hosea with a grin. Hosea doesn’t return it. 

 

“Did he mention anything about how they found us?” I shake my head no in reply to Hosea. Scratching his chin, he turns back to Dutch. 

 

“Well, our problem is clear, but not the cause. We’ve been relatively clean here, with exception to a couple heists,” says Dutch. 

 

“Blackwater was loud enough, they’re just picking up the trail. A couple of heists is enough for them to catch on to us. Was only a matter of time.” The tone of Hosea’s voice is grim. Clearly he and Dutch disagree entirely about the events that transpired at Blackwater. 

 

I can’t bring myself to care. 

 

“You worry too much, Hosea. We’ve got, what, a dozen Pinkertons in town? We still outnumber them nearly two to one, and don’t forget our heroic performance during the O’Driscoll ambush. We’ll protect ourselves if need be, and move on soon enough.” Dutch turns back to me. “Is there anything else you should tell us about the Pinkertons here?”

 

“I’m to meet with the same man tonight at the Smithfield, if I’m to keep the plans we made.” I snigger emotionlessly, wrapping my arms around myself. “He’s buying me a ticket to California in exchange for “working something out” with him.”

 

Hosea is visibly alarmed by this. “Daisy, you don’t need to go back. In fact, I insist you stay here.”

 

“What are you worried about, Hosea? We can gain more information tonight, surely you can see that. We still have a few hours before the meet up, she can be ready by then.”

 

I understand an order when I hear it. I start to stir to get up, still feeling detached from myself. A hand rests on my shoulder, gently pushing me back down. My half-lidded, emotionless eyes meet the concerned dark eyes of Hosea before his eyes shoot back to Dutch. 

 

“There’s other avenues to approach this, and we will use them. She’s in no condition to go back.” Simmering anger boils under the surface of Hosea, and while Dutch isn’t happy, he sits back a bit. Relenting, but not willingly. 

 

But then Dutch looks back down at me, and his eyes flash with understanding. “You get more rest, Daisy. Who knows, maybe you standing him up will give us more information. We’ll have someone, maybe Tilly,  deliver some news that you won’t make it, but to meet up with him tomorrow.”

 

Hosea shoots him another look, but Dutch pointedly ignores him. I nod in understanding.  _ Be ready tomorrow, or be ready to leave _ . 

 

“Right. Let’s go get ready. Rest easy, Miss Daisy,” Dutch says, standing to leave. Hosea follows him hesitantly, glancing back at me as they both disappear through the tent flaps. 

 

In the next hour, I slowly return to myself, but still find it hard to move myself around. My limbs are heavy and it is difficult to convince them to shift. Eventually, I’m able to get myself in a sitting position to reach the canteen that someone left for me.

 

After draining it I feel more in control of myself, and manage to stand in the tiny tent. I make a note to myself to expedite buying my own tent, if only to stand up straight in it. 

 

The sun has fully set when I finally emerge from the tent, cool air making me shiver a bit. The stool where the shadow was sitting is empty, but there’s cigarette stubs littering the ground, as well as shavings from a charcoal pencil.  _ Arthur _ . 

 

Its that moment when Pearson calls dinner, and I don’t see him as the gang gathers around the stewpot. I wait for the crowd to disperse, then get a bowl full and go to my perch on the rock near the cliff of Horseshoe Overlook. 

 

A few people come up to me while I hold my stewbowl, either patting my shoulder or grasping my hand to show some kind of solidarity. Karen so much as hugs me with an arm, but leaves, almost bashful. None of them say anything, and neither do I. 

 

The stew is cold when I feel someone sit next to me. The scent of gunsmoke and woods tell me that its Arthur. He doesn’t say anything, fervently eating his stew like its his last meal. When he finishes, he still says nothing, simply setting his bowl next to him in favor of pulling out a cigarette to light. 

 

“You’ll make yourself sick, smoking all those. That must be the twentieth of the day,” I say quietly, a wry smile on my face. 

 

He shakes his head, starting a match on the bottom of his boot. His face is illuminated as he lights up. 

 

“More’n that. I lost count,” he says gruffly. His voice is scratchy like mine, but not for the same reason. He leaves the cigarette in his mouth to pull his journal out, hand flying across a page to finish an entry. 

 

The only sound for a while is Arthur writing or drawing and the ambient noises of the camp. I shiver with the declining temperature. 

 

“Here,” he says, shrugging his heavy blue coat off and laying it on my shoulders. I nod in thanks, using my free hand to pull it closer around me. It smells like him, and my heart defrosts a bit at that thought. 

 

We sit there silently for a while longer before I realize that he’s waiting for me to speak.  _ He’s waiting to listen, not to comment or argue or defend _ . I’m touched, but I don’t deserve any part of it. Tears bud in my vision and I sniffle, making Arthur turn towards me. 

 

I look at the ground, ashamed about what I did today, my feelings about what I did. Everything about myself. 

 

“I’m sorry you all had to see me like that today,” I start, wiping an eye with the back of a hand. Arthur’s face tightens with confusion. “I promised that I would never do it again, save for in a pinch. I don’t know why it happened.”

 

“Daisy, ya did what any gang member would’ve done, and nothin’ further. Deceived to gain information. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, in our line of business.”

 

“But I  _ promised, _ ” I cried, and my shoulders started to shake in earnest. He lifts a hand to rub my arm, trying to comfort. Its awkward but I appreciate the gesture. 

 

“I swore that when I left, I would leave that life behind me. But, at the first sign of trouble, I slipped back into it. And it was  _ so goddamn easy _ to do it!” My voice raises a bit, and his hand moves to between my shoulder blades. “Had Dutch asked me, I would have gone back tonight without a second thought, to do God knows what to get more for him. It would have been so easy, and  _ that _ is what scares me the most.”

 

“But ya didn’t, darlin’. At least, ya didn’t have to. We all know ya want to change. Hosea knew that, too. But we know when one of us is about to go too far, one of us has to step in. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with askin’ for help, or receivin’ it when ya don’t know to ask.”

 

“That doesn’t change what I would have done. Or the fact that using those tactics would have been my first and only option. It’s fixed within me, and that will never change.”

 

He moves his hand to wipe a tear track off my face. His gloved hand is warm, and I close my eyes to lean into it. 

 

“Ya can’t change overnight, Daisy. None of us’re expectin’ ya to, and we ain’t the kind to judge.”

 

I give him a wobbly smile and he frowns a bit at it. “Doesn’t change what happens in my mind because of it. Gives me great reason to hate myself.” 

 

He stops me by shaking his head, and places a hand on my cheek. Despite the turmoil inside of me, I can feel my heart start to race at the contact. 

 

“Ya said it best yourself, next to that river after the Downes’s,” he starts, barely at a whisper. “The act itself being easy ain’t the hard part, but the dealin’ with it is. But, the redeemin’ factor is that ya feel bad about it. How’d ya put it? Bein’ able to recognize what’s bad makes things slightly better?”

 

I chuckle and place my hand over his on my cheek, rubbing a thumb on his knuckles. His eyes shine in the scant lights of nighttime, making the color indiscernable but the kindness that shows through is still clear. 

 

“Thank you, Arthur. For being there today, even if you were just outside.”

 

Its his turn to chuckle and look down. “Weren’t doin’ nothin’ I wouldn’t’ve already been doin’. Writin’ and smokin’.”

 

“Yeah, but you made me feel safe, and I appreciate that.” 

 

His head whips up to meet my eyes, and a look of wonder is on his face. His lips are parted, and he licks them before whispering, “Ain’t no one ever told me that before. Reckon I’m usually the one to cause harm, not safety.”

 

“Reckon I haven’t felt safe much in my life, but I do now. When I’m here.” I stop myself before I say  _ with you _ , but his face tells me he catches the drift. 

 

His eyes dart down to my lips. I want to touch some part of him with my other hand, but suddenly remember what occupies it. 

 

“My stew is cold,” I whisper, and my stomach gives a deafening, gurgling  _ growl _ , betraying me and breaking the moment. I flush bright red as Arthur leans back to laugh raucously, his hand leaving my face. I start to laugh too, wiping my eyes again. 

 

Leave me to have no tact or composure in this kind of situation. Of course he would laugh at me, but I guess it was funny. 

 

He gets up and offers me a hand to get off the rock, still catching his breath. “Pearson likely hasn’t run out, yet. We’ll dump this back in and get ya a new bowl.”

 

I take his hand and jump down, and as we walk towards the pot faces turned towards mine, some emotion like relief palpable in the air. 

 

He switches out my stew, and we take a seat near the fire. I listen to idle chatter from those around me, not saying anything as I spoon the food into my mouth. Abigail meets my eyes from across the fire and looks relieved when I nod at her, signalling that I’m doing better. 

 

“Javier, how about a song?” Abigail suggests, smiling as the rest of the gang perks up, too. 

 

“Sure,  _ amiga _ ,” he replies, getting up to grab his guitar from his things. When he settled back in with the rest of us, fiddling with the tuning of the instrument, Sean stood from his seat. 

 

“Actually, friends, I’d like to lead us tonight, ‘f I may be so bold,” he starts, meeting my eyes. “Seems ta’ me that the Irish folk outnumber every other proud nationality here-”

 

“That’s  _ if _ Miss O’Shea emerges,” Lenny remarks, a little loud as if to have the woman hear from her and Dutch’s tent. Arthur shakes his head at the attempt. 

 

“Even so, two lads and a lass from the Motherland is a’plenty to lead in a song,” he postulates, mischief shining in his eyes as he looks at me. I’m mid bite of stew, so I chew it quickly before speaking. 

 

“I hate to disappoint, but I left very young, and I have few memories left, let alone language or song,” I say to him, but he waves that away. 

 

“Nothin’ is gone. It’s etched into yer heart, ya couldn’t forget it if ya tried,” he says with a smile, holding a hand out. I know he says it as a jest, or simply to get me up with him, but I’m blinking tears away as I hand my stew bowl to Arthur to take Sean’s hand. 

 

“Atta girl! O’Driscoll, you’re up, too!” Sean calls over to the scout fire, Kieran startling up from his cigarette and coffee break. He bashfully joins us, and Sean wraps an arm around each of our shoulders to draw us in close. 

 

He whispers the name of an old folksong I can remember, and I grin and nod. Kieran looks a bit confused, but looks like he’s going to play along. 

 

“Javy, try to keep up with us,” Sean orders, to which Javier laughs and places his hands at the ready on the strings. 

 

_ “There was once a wild colonial boy,  _

_ Jack Duggan was his name! _

_ He was born and raised in Ireland,  _

_ In a place called Castlemaine.” _

We caught the drift of Sean’s singing and begin with him. I’m by no means a professional singer but at least I can recognize my notes, so my voice naturally tunes to the actual harmony of the song, correcting Sean’s off-key melody. Javier caught the rhythm and repeating notes, and began to play a  _ strum, pluck-pluck  _ pattern. 

 

When Duggan flees to Australia in the song, Dutch and Molly emerge from the tent, walking over to the fire. Molly’s eyes begin to shine and she clings to Dutch’s side, who responds by mechanically holding her. He seems lost in the lyrics about a Robin Hood character, stealing only to help the poor. I get jerked away from my observations as Sean tugs me into a twirl, making me giggle. 

 

The rest of the gang is quiet, understanding that this is a moment for being homesick for the four of us. When the song closes out with Duggan being murdered, Mary-Beth gasps, but then they all applaud us. 

 

“Stop it, we weren’t even that great!” Sean calls out, laughing at himself and pulling me with him, still with his arm around me. Kieran blushes and doesn’t really know what to do with himself. 

 

“Sean, that sure was … something,” Dutch calls from the side, “you sure do have a habit of being saved by friends, whether from imprisonment or poor harmonizing!” 

 

Sean gives him the finger and Dutch guffaws at it, the rest of the campsite following suit. Molly turns and hastens back to their tent, but I can’t think of why save for homesickness. 

 

“Another, you Irish bastards!” Karen calls from the side, handing beers out to everyone. It was that point that Hosea and Tilly approach the fire, wearing nicer clothing than usual, clearly coming back from their errand at Valentine. Hosea gives Dutch a significant look, but continues to seat himself at an empty log next to John. Tilly joins Mary-Beth and Lenny, pulling her coat around her from the cold. 

 

I drag my mind away from the possibilities of what they learned and instead start up an old drinking song from the Irish neighborhoods in New York. Sean and Kieran follow suit, keeping the upbeat tempo by stomping the ground. This is a better-known song, so the rest of the camp eventually takes up singing. This time, Sean locks elbows with the bewildered Kieran and they dance in a circle, me clapping and laughing while Javier plucks on a guitar. Sean eventually ropes me in as well, and I’m swung away, hooping and hollering as the camp sings and laughs at us. 

 

This went on for what felt like hours and was more likely just one, and though I know I shouldn’t be drinking with my brain acting the way it is, I’m on beer two by the time the rest of the gang seems to be on five or six. Eventually, I plop back down in my spot, panting and smiling as Sean and Kieran do the same, arms around each other next to Karen. 

 

Javier takes over for a couple of tunes, which is a sweet relief. Arthur, still sipping on a beer, seems to scoot a bit closer to me. I raise a brow at him, and he shrugs. I lean into him, savoring the warmth he radiates. 

 

Eventually things begin to wind down, and Hosea gets a look from Dutch that apparently means he needs to speak with me. He gestures my way and I stand, shucking the heavy coat on my shoulders to give back to Arthur. He looks confused but doesn’t say anything as Hosea leads me to the scout fire. 

 

“It’s good to see you feeling better, Daisy,” Hosea remarks, as Dutch settles on the other side of the fire, lighting his cigar on the errant flames. “I’m afraid it may not last long, though.”

 

He glares at Dutch who pointedly ignores him, meeting my eyes with determination. “Daisy, we need to ask another favor of you.”

 

I grimace, silently scolding myself for trusting that I may have recovered enough to stick up for myself. I glance at the other fire to see Arthur staring at us, frowning a bit, as if he knows where this conversation may be going. 

 

“Okay.”

 

“We need you to go meet up with that Harrison feller for lunch tomorrow at the Smithfield,” Dutch explains, taking a puff from the cigar. 

 

“Tilly was able to make an excuse for your absense, but he insisted on setting a new date. That makes the timeline for their supposed ambush rather tight, but it may still be worth it to gather some information. However,” Hosea adds before Dutch can interrupt, “I will be there, as will Tilly and anyone else who will make you feel more comfortable. We don’t want to take any chances on this going sideways, or on you feeling like you have no choices. We will keep you safe.”

 

My heartstrings tug at Hosea’s words, quelling the worry that was slowly building in my chest. Arthur’s words were true, that this gang needs me but will try to keep me from my worst qualities. 

 

“What new information should I be looking for tomorrow?” 

 

“The typical things, when and where the ambush will happen, how many will be there, et cetera. Should be fairly easy to get out of this feller with little risk or giving anything in return.” Dutch smiles at his own words, trusting my wiles to be successful for the gang. 

 

“Seems fine to me. I guess I’m in,” I say, nodding to the two men. 

 

Hosea’s eyes darken a bit, already formulating a plan, while Dutch exclaims, “Excellent! We’ll be at Keane’s saloon at eleven, your meetup’s at noon. See ya then.”

 

He gets up to get another drink, but Hosea stays as he ambles away. 

 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Daisy?” he asks me, and I shrug a bit. 

 

“No, but I can’t be sure about anything anymore. It’ll be okay,” I say, still a little unsure. “Plus, I talked to Arthur, and he helped me through some things.”

 

Hosea gave me a not-insignificant look at the mention of the enforcer, but nodded in affirmation anyway. “We’ll be there if you need it, the whole gang will likely show up if you ask.”

 

My heart soars. Not one month ago, this gang would have turned their backs on me if I had so much as  _ thought  _ about assisting me in something like this.  _ Somehow, I’ve maybe become something more to them. More than a whore, or just another mouth to feed.  _ And that thought, small as it is, feels really  _ good _ . 

 

I smile at him, and he stands, holding a hand down to assist me. “Better get you back to the others before they suspect we’re plotting something without them.”

 

We walk back to the fire and I take my seat with Arthur again, replying to his questioning look with one that says  _ we’ll talk later _ . 

 

“Nah, Daisy, what’s goin’ on?” he asks, clearly impatient, and maybe a little unappreciative of being left out of planning. 

 

I explain the plan to him quickly, and see his eyes darken in apprehension at my words. 

 

“Daisy, you scared the hell outta us when ya came back. We thought you was goin’ to do somethin’ bad to yourself. And now you’re jus’ goin’ to waltz back in there?” He seems incredulous, but I can understand why. 

 

“As, uhm, as  _ scared  _ as I should be, I think I’ll be fine. I’ll have people there to keep me from …” I pause, not knowing how to say what I want to say delicately. 

 

“Old habits?” Arthur supplies, and I nod in affirmation. 

 

“Especially if you’ll come.” My tone is a bit hopeful and I look in his eyes. He holds my gaze for a minute, then turns to poke at the fire with a stick. 

 

“Well, Marston says he’s got somethin’ planned for tomorrow, likely one of his elaborate yet brainless schemes. Should be done by the time a’ your meetup,” he remarks, making me hopeful. 

 

I place a hand on his forearm, squeezing a bit. “Thank you, Arthur. For considering helping. Hell, for everything.”

 

He waves a hand at me, but makes no move to shake my hand off his arm. “Aw, that ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for any of us.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it.”

 

He smirks at that, obscuring his eyes with the brim of his hat. I blush, the expression sending a quake from my hair to my boots. 

 

“Daisy!” someone - Sean - calls from across the fire. “D’you know any other homeland tunes?”

 

I shake my head at his clear fishing for me to sing alone. “None that I can sing confidently myself. Like I said, it’s been a while.”

 

Arthur clears his throat, sitting up a bit from his seat on our log. “What about that that song you was singin’ when we hunted? That one was nice.” His voice gets low at the end of the statement, and he goes to stare at the ground. 

 

“I mean, its from Scotland, not Ireland-”

 

“A spiritual brotherland!” Sean calls, clearly a couple drinks past tipsy. “Anyone who hates the bloody Tories is a friend to me!”

 

“C’mon, Daisy! One more before the night’s over!” Mary-Beth asks, Tilly nodding beside her. Hosea laughs and shakes his head, clearly embarrassed by his family members being so insistent. 

 

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I relent, sitting up a bit straighter. “It’s really only for New Years, but-”

 

“ _ Auld Lang Sine _ ?”John asks, breaking the sullen silence that has been between us. “My daddy were Scottish, too.”

 

“No, not that one, though my da did sing that when he got drunk enough on New Years.” I reply, nodding to Javier, who was at the ready with his guitar. I start to sing really softly and quickly, shy about my voice. 

 

_ “Of all the money that e’er I had _

_ I spent it in good company _

_ And all the harm I’ve ever done _

_ Alas it was to none but me,” _

 

John nods his head in recognition, humming along with me as Javier strums to the new-found melody. My confidence grows as I sing, but the rest of the camp goes quiet around the three of us. Dutch ducks his head out of his tent flaps before stepping fully out, scratching his chin. I can feel Arthur’s eyes boring into the side of my head, the rest of his body very tense. 

 

“ _ So fill to me the parting glass,  _

_ And drink a health whate’er befall, _

_ And gently rise and softly call _

_ Good night and joy be to you all.” _

 

I stop, and I can see Abigail wipe her eyes with her sleeve. Miss Grimshaw is clenching her jaw with some restrained emotion, and Kieran and Sean are just looking at me with open awe. 

 

Why are they looking at me like that?

 

“What are you all staring at?”

 

Hosea, as usual, is the first to speak up. “Just appreciate your voice is all, Miss Daisy.”

 

I blush, likely from head to heels. “Thank you.”

 

Charles and Bill break the silence by strolling up to the fire. “Shift change, all.”

 

That seems to make Arthur shake from his brooding. “Ah, shit. Sorry, Charles, forgot.”

 

Charles shrugs and takes a seat across the flames. Arthur stands and tugs me with him for some reason, but I follow without question. 

 

“I’d better head out. G’night, yall,” he announces to the people at the fire. I simply wave, pulling Arthur’s coat around me tighter. They all respond in their own way, and Arthur leads me to my shared tent. 

 

When we arrive, I shrug the coat off my shoulders and hand it to him.

 

“Thanks, darlin’. Gonna be a cold one, likely would’ve missed it.” he says with an appreciative grin, which makes my stomach warm. As he swings it around to put it on, I place a hand on his face and guide him down to mine, kissing his cheek gently. He stops moving at that, and I pull away shyly. 

 

“Thanks for everything, Arthur. Today and everyday,” I whisper, and I sweep into my tent before I embarrass myself further. A few minutes pass of me stooped just inside the tent like a fool, listening to any sign of him outside. 

 

Nothing happens for a minute or so, but then I hear the clink of his spurs receeding from my tent, likely to take up his post somewhere on the outskirts of camp. When all traces of him are gone, I sigh to myself and rub my eyes. 

 

What the hell just happened? More importantly, though, what the hell do I think I’m getting myself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of dream: Daisy wakes up after servicing a client, takes notes about encounter and the intelligence she gained from him, but also feels emotionally empty.


	12. oh all the comrades that e'er i had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This shit has nuts in it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, yall, thanks for sticking around! I appreciate your comments and kudos, and am so thankful for all of you! I'm a dingus and forgot to mention a couple of things in the last chapter, so here goes:
> 
> The song Daisy sang was "The Parting Glass", a Scottish new years song, like "Auld Lang Syne". Implied, since Arthur asked for the song he heard her sing, but thought I'd be clear anyway. Ed Sheeran has a nice version, as does the Celtic Woman and Peter Hollens, but my favorite is at the end of Assassin's Creed 4 Black Flag. Also, sorry that it was more of a filler chapter, but such is life. These two chapters were meant to be one chapter, but they both got away with me, and I'd rather publish two still long chapters rather than one mega chapter that takes an eternity to edit. Formatting was also different because my Word license expired and I'm not about to give Gates more money, so I switched to Google and forgot to fully single space it. Hopefully this chapter publishes more consistently with my first 10 chapters. 
> 
> Back to this chapter: I finally hit 50k!!!!! I've never stuck with a story this long, or even wrote a story this length, and I want to thank all of you for your support! I couldn't do it without you! With that said, this chapter is absolutely crazy, and I'm not sorry about it. This was so fun to write, and it felt like a fever dream as it rushed out of my mind. I regret nothing, and I promise it will not be a cliffhanger for long. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and enjoy!

I wake up the next morning feeling slightly better than I woke up yesterday, at least physically. I always sleep a lot after a mission, whether difficult or not. And knowing that I need to go back into the fray today makes me not want to wake up at all. 

Nevertheless, I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up, seeing the sun rays beginning to shine through the back of the tent. _Usually not up this late in the day. Hopefully there’s still breakfast_. 

Can’t find out without getting up, as it turns out, so I pull on my boots and wrap my coat around my shoulders to brave the morning air. 

Arthur stands next to the fire, coffee cup in hand, nursing it and using it to warm his hands. I blush a bit, thinking about last night, before approaching to grab some porridge and coffee. He looks over and gives me a bleary smile, and I return one shyly. I never really sang in front of people in New York, and I feel self-conscious after last night. 

He pours me a cup while I scoop porridge into a bowl. _Honestly, even foraged nuts would make this better._ When I settle next to the fire he sits next to me, and I wait for him to say something. It goes on for a couple of minutes, but when he finally inhales to speak, Abigail walks up. 

“Morning, you two!”

“Mornin’, Abigail,” Arthur replies, and I smile at her through a mouthful. 

“Can I ask you a favor, Arthur?”

She sounds hopeful, but Arthur sighs in exasperation anyway. “What is it?”

“Would you take Jack?”

Arthur tenses up in annoyance, and I can see him glance my way out of the corner of my eye. 

“He seems awfully tense, and all this upheaval can’t be good for him. And don’t you dare go on about bein’ his favorite nursemaid!” Abigail says quickly, causing Arthur to close his mouth, stopping whatever he was about to say. “He dotes on you. Please?"

“Oh, alright. Just ‘cause Marston’s useless,” Arthur gives in with exasperation, which likely isn’t real seeing how much he cares for the boy. 

Abigail, clearly happy she got her way, smiles and departs. Arthur simply shakes his head at the ground. 

“That’s good of you, to help Jack when he needs it,” I remark, finally swallowing my mouthful. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Kids these days need good role models to be, I dunno, decent humans? God knows we didn’t have that.”

He snorts at this, not saying anything for a while. Jack plays in the grass over by the horses, unaware of his mother hoisting him off on Arthur for the day. 

“Well, I better take off with him. Fishin’ is best done in the morning. Hey,” he says, finally looking over at me. “Why don’t you come with? Ya might learn yourself somethin’.”

I blanch at the thought. Everything I know about fishing is sitting in one spot for hours, and the _smell_. Arthur sees my face and smirks. “Give it a chance, city slicker. Might like it.”

“I have my, uhm, _appointment_ at noon, plus meeting with Dutch at eleven in town. And you have that job with John soon-”

“We still got a couple hours. Fishin’ don’t take long, unless you’re incompetent.”

“Well, I’ve proven myself to be just that in many ways lately.”

“Nonsense. Give it a shot, just to see how if anythin’ else.”

“Fine!” I relent, frowning and pouring the rest of my coffee out as Arthur grins at me, happy that he won. “Let’s get this over with.”

An hour passes and finds me and the two of them at the river below Horseshoe Overlook, not far from camp. Arthur ran through the fundamentals with Jack and I, and managed to catch a couple bluegills. Jack caught one and lost interest, and I’m on my fourth piece of bait with no luck. 

“Jus’ keep your eyes on the end of the pole,” he instructs, lazily moving his own rod to entice the fish below. I laughed for about five minutes when he pulled his collapsible fishing pole out of his bag, which he returned with a quizzical look

“Prepared for anything,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You got a collapsible gun in there? What about a collapsible horse?” 

He had chuckled a bit at my mirth, clearly not understanding why I was laughing

A tiny twitch at the end of the rod pulls my attention back to fishing, but I wait another minute before realizing the fish moved on. 

“Anyway, how’re ya feelin’ bout today?”

My throat closes a bit at the thought, but I clear it before speaking. “I feel fine. It’ll be fine.”

“Bullshit.”

I whip my head to him, whose look I can’t read. “You told me from the beginning that you’re a lousy liar, and I believe ya now.”

“Arthur-”

“No matter what Dutch and Hosea ask of ya, ya don’t have to do this. Ya have a choice,” he says firmly, shaking his head. 

“You’re right,” I reply, not wanting to tell him that the opposite is true, “but I want to help the camp any way I can. Anyways, lots of us will be there, so I’ll be fine-”

“Well, there’s other ways. Surely there’s-”

“What’s Jack up to?” I interrupt, looking around for the boy. Arthur sighs at being cut off, but doesn’t protest. 

I spot Jack next to a boulder, trying and failing to tie some flowers into a necklace. “Here, Jack,” I say, squatting next to him, pole abandoned on the ground near me. “You need to overlap them a bit to give yourself room to tie them. Plus, pick the stems that are thinner, easier to tie that way.”

He fixes a part of the necklace and continues on, humming quietly to himself. Arthur walks over, unhooking a large smallmouth from his line, then reels in mine. “Whatchu got there, Jack?”

“A necklace for my momma.”

“Sure!”

“What a fine young man...”

I jump out of my skin at the invasion of a new voice at the river. Arthur stands immediately, putting his body between the newcomers and Jack and I. I shove Jack behind me, who grabs my skirt and shivers in fear. 

The men, clearly Pinkertons by their silver badges on their lapels, swagger over from their horses. Arthur bristles at the sight, and I wish I had worn a hat to hide my face. 

“... and in such complex circumstances. Arthur Morgan?”

The other man, the silent one, cocks a shotgun, the noise making Jack whimper a bit. I press him to my side, staring at the ground. 

“Who’re you?” Arthur asks, voice low and defensive. 

“Yes, Arthur Morgan…” the speaker deflects the question, addressing his partner. This clearly pisses Arthur off, but he holds it in. “Van der Linde’s most trusted associate. You’ve read the files. Typical case, orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac’s silver tongue and matures into a degenerate murderer.”

I bristle, but hold my tongue. I have no idea if these men - Pinkertons, no less - might know me, and losing my temper is the last thing this situation needs. 

I tuck myself into Arthur more, and he reaches an arm securely around me. 

“Agent Milton, Agent Ross. Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States government. Nice to finally meet.” Their names click in my brain, but I’m not sure why. Agent Milton says this all with slimy grandeur that makes me think of Dwight. “We know a lot about you!”

“Do you?” Arthur practically growls. 

“You’re a wanted man, Mr. Morgan. There’s five thousand dollars for your head alone.”

“Five thousand dollars? For me?” _Arthur’s self worth issues sure can come out at weird times_ , I think as he whispers to them, “can I turn myself in?” 

“We want Van der Linde.”

“Old Dutch? I haven’t seen him for months.” The lie slips smoothly from his lips, and I thank the Lord that Arthur is able to do so easily. Most wouldn’t be able to keep their composure in this kind of situation. 

“That so? Cause what I heard is a guy fitting his description robbed a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall up near Granite Pass.”

“Oh, ain’t that a little old fashioned nowadays?” This time Arthur tries too hard to keep his cool, caught in a lie. _Mine wasn’t the only train they robbed recently._

“Apparently not.” Milton knows he has the upper hand, and I peek to see him approach Arthur with his hands raised. “This is my offer, Mr. Morgan. Bring in Van der Linde, and you have my word, you won’t swing.”

“Oh I won’t swing anyways, Mr, uh…” Arthur plows through Milton’s growled reminder of his name. “You see, I haven’t done anythin’ wrong, aside from not playin’ the games to your rules."

“Spare me the philosophy lesson, I’ve already heard it from Mac Callander.” Milton says this, catching my eye before I can hide my face again. If he recognizes me, he doesn’t mention it. 

But, Arthur is caught off guard by the name. “Mac Callander?”

“He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him, so really it was more of a mercy killing. Slow, but merciful.”

Arthur throws the pole he’s still holding to the ground, losing his cool after so long. Jack gasps and nearly falls backwards, but I keep a firm grip on him, still ducked behind Arthur as he reaches for his revolver. Agent Ross points the shotgun square in his face, but Arthur doesn’t back away. 

“You enjoy bein’ a rich man’s toy, d’you?” He nearly yells, anger taking over. 

“I enjoy society, flaws and all! You people venerate savagery, and you will die savagely, all of you!”

“Oh, we’re all gonna die, Agent,” Arthur murmurs, and I clasp his forearm. 

“Some of us sooner than others.” I don’t realize how close Milton had gotten until he pauses his speech and I can almost feel his breath. “Madam,” he suddenly turns to address me, venom still present in his voice. I duck my face further into Arthur’s shoulder. “I suggest you leave, take the child, and go back to _where you belong_ soon, or you’ll perish with them. Good day.” 

Milton turns to his horse, walking away. “Goodbye,” Arthur replies, more threat than farewell. 

Ross finally lowers his gun, shouldering it to return to Milton. “Enjoy your fishing, kid, while you still can.” Before he turns around, I accidentally lock eyes with him, and something flashes across his face before he can hide it. 

Something like _recognition_. Fear threads through my veins at the thought. My mind still spins, trying to think of why I know their names from my time at the Agency. 

“Who’re they?” Jack asks, almost precociously, finally stepping out from behind me. 

“No one to worry about, no one at all,” Arthur rushes, placing his hands protectively on Jack’s head. He makes eye contact with me, concern shining through the remaining adrenaline. “C’mon, let’s pick up your things and get home.”

Jack grabs his fishing pole and the necklace, and Arthur collapses his fishing rod, which is no longer hilarious to me. I grab the reins of my horse, hoisting myself up while Arthur lifts Jack into the saddle in front of him, and we rush back home. 

* * *

We get back to camp, and I dismount and stride over to Dutch’s tent as Arthur returns Jack to Abigail. She smiles sweetly at the flower necklace, and Jack points over to me. I return a wave, and Abigail mouths _thank you_ at me. 

I think back on the conversation we had on the ride back, and Jack asking if Callander was still alive somewhere broke my heart for him. It’s never easy to lose a friend, and Jack likely doesn’t understand why so many family members “leave” so frequently. 

During that ride back, I also remembered how I knew of Milton and Ross. Which makes having this conversation with Dutch ever more urgent. Because it is not good. Milton, at least, has the reputation of a bulldog at the Agency, catching more outlaws than any other Agency man in the past twenty years. Allan Pinkerton himself is said to have been impressed with Milton’s ruthlessness, a fact which scares me more than most. 

And Ross has a violent streak a mile long, having worked in most of the Agency’s fields and leaving a trail of blood wherever he went. Not one to take lightly. 

Arthur storms over, fury barely contained and breaking my reverie, and barges into the tent. “We got a problem!”

“Whut?” Dutch asks, clearly not amused at being interrupted from his reading. _He can get over it_. 

“We just met some guys out near the river, a feller named, uhm, Milton, and, uh-”

“Ross,” I supplied, holding my elbows in front of me. I’m still shaken up a bit, from my realization and from what just happened. 

“And?” Dutch is losing patience.

“ _And_ they are employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency!” Arthur hisses, and Dutch’s eyes fly to me, interest finally piqued. I avoid his gaze. “And they know about the train and they know we’re here!”

“Were you followed back here?”

“No, but they know we’re near here! And they want you, Dutch. They offered my freedom in exchange, they did!”

“Why didn’t you take it?” Dutch jokes. 

“Very funny. What do we do next?”

“Daisy, did you recognize these men?” Dutch turns to me, and so does Arthur, seeming shocked that he didn’t ask me. 

“Not their faces, but I’m certain I’ve heard their names. I assure you, Dutch, their reputation precedes them.” 

He frowns at my ominous tone. “Surely, they are no match for some wily outlaws, though?”

I frown back. “If I am to be frank, they eat wily outlaws for breakfast. Milton, especially, is ruthless to those who refuse polite society’s rules. And Ross…” I trail off, not wanting to pass on the stories I have heard. Arthur’s face darkens, but Dutch doesn’t react. 

“Did you hide your face?”

“As much as I could in the spur of the moment, thanks to Arthur. They might have seen me at the end of their conversation, but I’m hoping I was low-level enough at the Agency that they wouldn’t recognize me.” Doubt rings through my voice, but whether or not they notice I don’t know. 

“Well, that’s something, at least.”

Arthur seems to lose patience. “Well, what do we do now?”

Dutch walks around us, pacing in the middle of the camp, lost in thought. I feel stuck in place, unable to move out of fear, confusion, or listlessness. Arthur huffs in frustration, staring after his mentor, deep in thought. 

“I say we do nothing, just yet. They did not see or recognize you, Daisy, and if they did, then that’s just one more of us wanted by the damned Pinkertons.” He’s convincing himself as much as he’s convincing me, and I don’t think it works on either of us. Arthur seems incredulous. “They’re just trying to scare us into doing something stupid. We have turned a corner, we survived them mountains. We just need to stay calm.”

At that, Arthur begins to nod, but when I see his face underneath the rim of his hat, he doesn’t seem convinced. Dutch goes back into his tent, closing the flaps behind him despite the heat of the day. 

I realize that I need to start getting ready for the mission today, and I turn to walk to my tent before feeling a hand on my shoulder. 

“Wait, Daisy. After what just happened, what you’re doin’ today seems crazy-”

“I know, but I think it still needs to be done.”

“Says who? There ain’t nothin’ to be gained that’s worth what could happen!”

“That’s only if they recognized me, and only _if_ they would connect the dots. There’s no guarantee any of that will transpire.”

“Don’t care, still seems pretty goddamn stupid to me!”

“I understand, but it’s not up to you, or me for that matter. Dutch and Hosea asked me to do this, and I’ll do it.”

With that, I keep walking towards my tent, hearing his spurs clinking behind me. “This town is crawlin’ in Pinkertons, we meet _different Pinkertons_ on a Sunday mornin’ stroll, and you’re _still_ doin’ this?!”

He’s angry now, hissing this through his teeth. “Take it up with Dutch and Hosea, Arthur. I’ll do what I was asked to do, like _you_ do every day.” I check inside the tent at Tilly’s clock.  “You’ll be late for your meeting with John, Arthur, you’d better get going.”

He doesn’t like being dismissed, but grabs my hand gently anyway, turning me around. “Still stubborn as a mule, I see. Regardless, I’ll be there, watching from Keane’s with the rest of us. Be safe.”

His gentle voice makes my heart soar, and I smile softly at him. “You, too.”

I turn to duck into my tent, but Arthur stops me again. “Oh, I almos’ forgot. Here,” he says, pulling something out of his satchel. 

My mind flies out the window when Arthur hands me a small red flower. It’s flattened, clearly kept safe in Arthur’s journal, but he had carefully turned it so the petals were all open. I hold it, brain making me incapable of speech or action as I process what is happening. 

“Saw this when Jack was makin’ his necklace, and I dunno, reminded me o’ you. Ain’t a daisy, but still, it’s kinda stupid…” he rambles, scratching the back of his neck in embarrasment. 

“Daisies are overrated,” I reply, trying as hard as I can to hide my blush. 

“Nah, they ain’t,” he replies. I try to distract myself by counting the blades of grass under my bare feet, but my ears are burning hot. “Well, you’re probably sick of ‘em.”

I huff out a laugh and, despite feeling the dark blush reach down my chest, bring my eyes back to his. There’s a softness there, in the strange blue-grey, and he is blushing too. I stop my mind from thinking on what that means. “All the same, thank you, Arthur.”

He nods shyly and turns to mount Laya, riding out of camp. I still hold the flower outside my tent when he’s gone. 

I don’t allow myself to think. To dare to hope. That can’t be a thing. I have no room for hope in my shriveled up heart. There’s no room for heartbreak, either. But it’s a habit at this point. Maybe that’s why I find myself gently tucking the flower into the bottom pages of my journal, making sure the petals still lay flat when I close the pages. 

What the hell is happening? I’ve been aware of my rising feelings for the man in the back of my mind, but knew that nothing would come of it. An innocent, fanciful dream. But now Arthur acting so sweet is giving me whiplash. I knew he never truly hated me; distrusted deeply, yes, but it takes a lot for the man to be hateful. But the flower, his coat last night, _oh god_ , sitting outside my tent yesterday? Could there be more there?

I stamp that down before it can grow into something more. I need to get my shit together. Love is something I do not deserve. I can grow out of it, Arthur will get over it and find someone better for him. 

I pull my skirt and blouse out of my pack, laying out extra knives to hide on my person after the events of today. _Can’t be too careful_. 

* * *

I ride in on the far side of town from Smithfields, in case Harrison Turner is early. I sit astride my massive, still unnamed Shire stallion, fully dressed as Geniveve Coulson and ready to gain some information. 

My heart is racing, but it usually does before a mission. When I see the target, I’ll slide into my cool facade. 

My horse nickers, clearly picking up on my discomfort, and I lean forward to pat his neck. “It’ll be alright, boy,” I reassure, hoping my own words rub off on me. Something hasn’t been feeling right in Valentine. Not enough for me to cancel the appointment, but enough for me to notice. More suspicious glances than normal in a fairly friendly town, more twitchiness at the louder bleats of sheep at the auction yard, or at the shouts within one of the saloons. 

It’s probably just me being on edge, but I very rarely distrust my instincts, so I keep on the lookout anyway. 

I tie up my horse outside the far side of Keane’s and walk in, knowing that I have to hide my horse and approach Smithfield’s from the other side of town to keep up the front of me staying at Chadwick farm. 

Dutch and Strauss, to my surprise, are waiting inside when I enter, and I take a seat at the table. Dutch waves at the bartender, who brings a shot of whiskey that I immediately take, hoping it will calm my nerves. 

“Something doesn’t feel right, Dutch. Whole town is jumpy.”

“Its fine, Daisy, just your imagination. You went through a bit of a scare this morning and now you’re jumpin’ at shadows, nothing more,” he says nonchalantly, sipping more on his own drink. 

I don’t appreciate being told how I feel or what I’m seeing, but I don’t push the topic, instead looking out the window. Strauss then dives into some philosophy argument with Dutch to kill some time while we watch Smithfield’s through the window. I distantly see Hosea, then Tilly, then Charles walk into Smithfield’s. _Fifteen minutes._

Then, a group of four men sporting that badge enter Smithfield’s, Harrison one of them. Ten minutes later, three of them walk out, leaving Harrison in there alone. 

“It’s time,” I tell Dutch and he nods, looking out the window at the Pinkertons walking towards the church. I stand on unsteady legs and push out of the door into the bright sunlight. 

People still amble down the streets when I emerge from Keane’s, riding horses and wagons to sell. I can distantly hear the bleats of sheep up for auction at the yard, and can distantly hear John’s _yah!_ as his horse, Old Boy, wickers in protest. _He and Arthur must be running some con at the auction yard_. 

Can’t focus on that now, so I step off the porch and begin to walk. 

I gain more and more of my composure as I take the long way to Smithfields, making sure I look like I’m walking down from Chadwick’s. I turn right down the main street, past the police station and doctor’s office. 

A force suddenly yanks me into the alleyway of Smithfield’s and a gloved hand covers my mouth before I can scream. I struggle as much as possible to escape, ripping at the arms of my captor and digging my heels into the ground, to no avail. I don’t even put a dent into its pace, and it simply kicks my feet out from under me and goes faster, making it more difficult to control my legs against the force. 

It drags me back behind the saloon and into the grassy area, where there’s a small crowd of men in suits waiting. 

“Well hello there, Miss Geniveve. Nice to see you this morning, missed you last night!” Harrison says from behind me. He walks around the others to face me, smug look on his face. “You didn’t really think we wouldn’t find out about you, or at the very least check with Chadwick farm, right?”

A weight sinks into my stomach. The man tightens his arms on me, as another forces a handkerchief as a gag into my mouth. It’s tied tightly behind my head, yanking hair out of the root and making me cry out. 

“Now, now, don’t make a fuss, or this won’t end well for you or your friends,” Harrison drawls. He’s clearly enjoying himself, which makes me want to vomit. “So when I called on you last night at Chadwick, it came to my surprise that they’d _never heard_ of someone with your description, let alone housed anyone like that there. So I got curious.

“And that’s when Agents Milton and Ross came back from their hunt this morning, bearing some _fascinating news_.” He’s almost whispering sensually in my ear, and I turn my head as far from his as I can. “Not only was this girl not who she said she was, but Pinkertons’ very own Daisy McCormack, back from the dead!”

Sobs rack through my body, any hope of getting out of this clean gone with the wind. I’m so thoroughly, entirely _fucked_. 

“Good thing Ross has good memory for fancy faces, otherwise you might have gotten away with it. Now, with your delivery back to the New York office, we might be up for promotion! Dwight Williams is going to be thrilled!” I thrash with the mention of Dwight’s name, but the man’s grip on me tightens, nearly ripping my arms out of their sockets. Harrison wipes the tears from my cheeks as I stop my frantic movement. He whispers only so I can hear, “and he might let me keep you all to myself.” 

He smiles and I throw myself as far from him as I can get, which is all of two inches. He chuckles darkly. “But we have some work to do before that and a paycheck to collect, what with dispatching the Van der Lindes for Cornwall and all. Let’s go, men!”

I start to struggle again as they drag my body back to the main street, walking back towards Keane’s. Clearly they knew Dutch was hiding out in there, too. _What else could they know?_

I begin to hyperventilate around the gag, and when I lose my footing one of the men holding me yanks me back to my feet by my hair. My arms quake with the effort to escape, but I’m too weak and these men have too good a hold on me. 

When we round the corner, a man in an expensive suit sits on a white horse, surrounded by heavily armed men. 

“VAN DER LINDE! Get on out here _now!_ ”

This must be Leviticus Cornwall, the man whose train Dutch and the gang robbed before I joined up. Judging by the ruddy anger shown on his face, it’s not a train he was willing to write off. He continues yelling into the saloon, while more men round the opposite corner to me, holding John Marston and Strauss hostage as well. John gets one look at me and begins to struggle in earnest, rage clear from yards away. 

Cornwall continues screaming threats into the saloon, and the men holding me shove me to my knees, grasping me by the hair and pressing the barrel of a gun to the side of my head. Whimpers escape my throat and I turn away, closing my eyes. 

 _This is it. This is where it ends_. 

Cornwall screams his tirade into Keane’s, and I open my eyes a crack to see curtains rustle within the windows. Arthur’s face peeks around the corner, reading the situation, eyes reacting to seeing both John and Strauss in captivity.

Then he turns and sees me, and surprise then genuine fear flashes in his eyes. He turns away briefly, then is replaced by Dutch, whose eyes harden in hatred at the sight of the three of us. 

“Deal with this nonsense,” Cornwall orders, riding off with a couple of his men. I’m dragged closer to where John and Strauss are, the gravel of the road tearing holes in my skirt, then into the flesh of my knees. 

Which makes me feel the small knife strapped to my calf, completely forgotten in the ambush and panic. 

_I might have a chance, if I survive long enough to reach a knife._

Dutch and Arthur step out of the saloon, hands in the air. Arthur’s hard eyes flash over me, taking in all the details of my captivity. The man holding me notices and pushes the gun harder into my temple, and I whimper against the gag.

Dutch begins pontificating, trying to sway these men’s decisions with morality, which I know won’t work. Arthur eyes them, then gives me one last glance before drawing his revolver. 

Two men’s heads explode before the rest register Arthur is shooting. 

John is able to shake his captor and get the man’s gun, opening fire. Strauss wrenches free and runs towards cover. The man holding my hair lets go to draw, making me flop into the mud, useless with my arms tied behind my back. 

The mud around me starts exploding, bullets flying everywhere, and I know I need cover. But I can hardly move. 

“Daisy! Hang on!” Dutch calls, he and Arthur still pinned in front of the saloon. 

 _If I can get my legs twisted, I might get my knife to cut my binds._ I immediately bend backwards, legs cramping with the effort to get the knife strapped to my leg. I can _just_ get it with my fingertips, so I wrench it free, flipping it up to cut my hands free. 

Before I can get the gag out of my mouth, a body lands on top of me and grasps the wrist with the knife. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Miss McCormack!” Harrison yells, spittle flying into my face.We start rolling in the dirt, trying to get the upper hand on the other. He ends up pinning me down, knocking the knife out of my hand and straddling my torso. He starts landing punches on my face, screaming as he beats me. 

I lift my arms to protect my head, but he simply pins my wrists above my head, punching me with his other hand. My nose splinters under his touch, and I taste blood around the gag. He’s punching me hard enough to make my neck lash, and I struggle fruitlessly, not strong enough to break his hold, legs kicking for some kind of leverage in the muddy road. 

“ _DAISY!”_

Arthur barrels into the side of Harrison, knocking him off me and throwing me to the side as Harrison’s grip on me breaks. I hear a scream and a single shot closeby, and Harrison moves no more. 

Arthur runs back to me, lifting me to my feet and yanking the gag from my mouth. “You okay?”

I gasp a sob in reply, pulling the stilettos from the boning of my corset as blood from my broken nose flows into my mouth. My entire face is throbbing in pain. “ _No, I’m not_ _fucking okay!_ Can’t think on that now, let’s go!”

I turn towards some kind of cover when a loud shot rings out and a sharp, blinding pain radiates from my left thigh, sweeping my feet from under me again. I scream as I fall, landing back in the mud, and instinctually grab my bleeding leg. I can't think straight, it hurts so badly, and all I can do is screw my eyes shut. 

“Shit!” Arthur shouts, grabbing me under the shoulders and pulling me behind a nearby wagon. The amount of shooting is unbelievable, I realize, finally understanding that there’s about twenty men shooting at what amounts to three Van der Lindes. 

Arthur leans me against a wagon wheel and I open my eyes to see him tug the repeater off his back, shooting two more men charging at us. “Where is it?!”

“My leg,” I groan through clenched teeth. I don’t want to look at it, but I feel blood seep through my fingers. 

His jaw tightens as he gently lifts my hand to assess the wound, and the lack of pressure stabilizing the wound makes me cry out in pain. “Bullet’s still in there, we’ll have to get it out. Dutch!”

“Arthur, what’s going on?!” Dutch has shelter in front of the gun store, shooting at men perched on the opposite rooftops. 

“Daisy got hit, Dutch, she’s losin’ a lot of blood,” he says, yanking his neckerchief off and pressing it into my hand. He applies my hand back to the wound, and I start to feel the blood soaking through the fabric. 

“Shit!” Dutch shouts at Strauss goes down, blood spraying from his shoulder. He screams, laying on the other side of the wagon. “John, get Strauss on the wagon! Arthur, get Daisy on there, too! I’ll cover you!"

Arthur gets an arm under my shoulders and hoists me to my feet, supporting me so I don’t need to put pressure on my leg. Dutch drops off the porch, shooting towards some men up at the church. When a man runs up the street, in Dutch’s blind spot. 

“Dutch, look out!” I shriek, wrenching myself from Arthur’s grip and throwing my stiletto knife as hard as I can manage at the attacker. I realize too late that putting any weight on my ruined leg is useless, and I collapse on the ground. 

The knife lands square in the man’s throat, spraying blood across the street and onto the steps of the storefronts. He lands with a thud on the ground, and the pained gurgling as he tries to breathe are audible over the gunshots. 

Dutch looks incredulously at me as Arthur yanks me back to my feet. “Thanks Daisy, now _get your ass on that wagon!_ Arthur, give her a gun you can spare, Strauss is useless!”

Strauss protests as Arthur fully lifts me, his arm under my knees tearing again at my wound, making me scream. 

“You’ll be fine, you’ll get out of this, jus’ hang on!” Arthur says gently, though he’s panicking. He sets me down at the back of the wagon, softly leaning my back against the wall facing out the back of the wagon. “Here,” he hands me his second revolver and a box of bullets, “you can do this, jus’ _don’t fuckin’ miss_.”

He’s gone before I can respond, vaulting over the side of the wagon with a spray of shots ringing as soon as he lands. The three men outside manage to get the wagon moving, Dutch and John pushing as Arthur covers from the side. The bumping cart jostles us, and tears of pain roll over my cheeks with the uneven pressure on my wound. 

“Daisy, behind us!” Dutch calls, and it takes me three shots to take the man running at the cart down, hitting his chest on the third shot. 

“Nice!” John encourages over Strauss’s labored breathing. “Keep your eyes open!” 

I empty the chambers trying to take out another, but only manage to hit him in the shoulder before Arthur finishes the job. Letting go of my leg to reload is one of the most difficult, most painful things I’ve done in my life, and my vision starts to blacken before I’m able to apply pressure again. 

We manage to get moving down the street towards the stables, Dutch and John frantically pushing as Arthur rains death on those in front, me managing somehow to keep up with him on attackers from behind. Strauss whimpers and holds his arm, which shows a through-and-through in the meat of his arm. _Dutch wasn’t kidding, he_ is _useless._

The men, despite the terror and chaos happening around us, still manage to bicker through this encounter, showing that they truly are a family. 

“John, Arthur, our horses are over there. These two ain’t in no condition to ride, so get the horses hooked up to the wagon so we can get the hell out of here!” Dutch pulls both guns from his holsters to cover as the other two rush off. I don’t see my stallion among them, so I whistle as loudly as I can to draw him to us. 

A mountain of black gallops down the main street, and runs over a man who careens out into the road. 

As my horse gets here, another man slips by Dutch and begins to climb into the wagon, yanking a knife out to rid of Strauss and I. 

My horse turns and _donkey kicks_ the man in the head before he is able to stand in the wagon, and his head explodes with a rain of brains on the two of us. I scream at the sight, and Strauss loses consciousness, either from pain or from the sight of the shattered skull. The horse settles back to the ground, blood and brains sticking to the black fur of his legs. 

“That’s one hell of a horse you got there, Miss McCormack! Mind if we borrow him?” Dutch asks with mirth, not bothered by what just happened. I’m able to nod and he leads the stallion to the front, getting the harness around him. 

“Arthur, you make sure nobody’s following us. We’re going back to camp, gathering the troops, and getting ‘em to start packing up!” Arthur nods at the orders and jumps on Laya, bounding off in the opposite direction. 

“Daisy, you incredible girl, you hold on. We’ll get you and Strauss help. Just stay with us!” Dutch finishes hooking his Arabian to the wagon, and I manage to laugh at the ridiculous height difference between his horse and mine, side by side. Dutch jumps up to steer the wagon, and John follows behind on his war horse, repeater still at the ready on his side. 

The jostling of the wagon, combined with pain and the memory of everything that went down today finally forces me into unconsciousness, and I embrace oblivion like an old friend, gun still clenched in my hand. 


	13. that i should rise and you should not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is going to be a bumpy ride. literally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, hope my American friends had a nice Thanksgiving/Purina National Dog Show day, and everyone else had a nice last bit of November!
> 
> This is another graphic-ish chapter, so be warned, if you don't like to hear bullets being pulled out of legs, then read carefully. Also, bit of a filter, but I don't care at this point. 
> 
> I will be attempting to post more regularly, at least once a week, for the foreseeable future. And now that I've said that, it won't happen (knock on wood that it will). 
> 
> The chapter I am currently writing (chapter 14) is kind of kicking my ass, though. I know long term what I want this story to be, but short term is a bit of a struggle. So if you have any suggestions/requests for some sweet Chapter 3 scenes with a Daisy Twist, I am all ears. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, and comments and kudos are my lifeblood!

Shooting pain from my left leg jars me back to consciousness. It radiates, like ripples on water, throughout the rest of my body, settling on my bruised ribs or my beaten face. It’s like the bullet is running a current of electricity, with the goal of causing as much pain as possible. I half wish I could just lose consciousness again. 

Dutch is driving the horses hard to get us back to Horseshoe Overlook, not caring about the roots or divots he runs over. I see that Strauss is also awake, bracing himself with his feet as much as he can while holding his bleeding shoulder.

A large bump nearly unseats me, and the pain makes my vision go black again. John rides up beside the wagon, a look of concern on his face. 

“Hang in there! If ya can!” John says, and I want to strangle him. 

Finally, we turn into the telltale woods surrounding camp, and Bill shouts a warning into camp from his lookout. We get to the horse station and Dutch springs up, immediately yelling orders to Pearson and Miss Grimshaw to start cleaning up. Grimshaw has one look at Strauss and I and orders Mary-Beth and Lenny to lead the clean up of camp, while she grabs Abigail and Sadie from their tents. 

“Abigail, get the catgut and needle from the medical wagon, plus some a’ that whiskey Dutch is hoarding. Sadie, help Pearson get some water boilin’ as well as some clean cloth. Oh,” Miss Grimshaw’s look darkens, “and get some leather for bitin’.”

They both run off, and Strauss slides off the wagon, holding his shoulder and milking it as much as possible.  _ Likely the first time he’s been shot _ , I think, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt through a haze of pain,  _ but then again, this is my first time, too.  _

“I appreciate that you’re in pain, Herr Strauss, but we at least need to get the bullet out of Miss McCormack before we stitch you up,” Miss Grimshaw dismissed him, seeing me sweating bullets and holding my bleeding leg. He looks outraged and starts to argue, but Abigail pushes him out of the way to help Miss Grimshaw get me off the wagon. 

As they help me to my feet, I get a first look at my wound. Blood pours down my leg, soaking my skirt and making it stick down the length of my leg, pooling within the wagon. There’s also red stains around the knees of my skirt from where I was dragged through the gravel. Pressure pulses behind various points on my face, and blood continues to pour out of my nose as my eye begins to swell shut. 

I could say that I’ve had worse, but that wouldn’t be true at all. 

“C’mere, honey, we gotta get you cleaned up,” Abigail reassures as Sadie runs over with clean cloth. She takes over for Grimshaw holding me as the older woman runs towards her tent, now just an empty cot under an open sky with Lenny rolling up the canvas. 

They lay me down, and the change from standing to lying down makes my head swim again. My eyes roll, and Sadie slaps me hard in the face. 

“Sadie!” Abigail yells, not stopping any of her own preparations. 

“You need to stay awake, or I’ll drag you back from hell myself,” she growls, grabbing one of my extra knives off my person and hacking a slit down my skirt. Abigail sucks in a breath, but takes over in holding the neckerchief to my thigh. 

Miss Grimshaw returns, flicking her wrist to light a match and holding it to a pair of  _ pliers _ . Like the ones that Charles and John use to repair the wagon wheels.  _ Honestly, probably the  _ same  _ ones.  _ I find myself scooting as far away as I can manage on the cot, horrified that they don’t even have  _ forceps  _ in a gang of outlaws that surely get shot very frequently. 

“No, no no  _ no no _ ,  _ please _ -”

“Pipe down, Miss Daisy, it’ll need to come out, one way or another,” Grimshaw almost threatens as she approaches, kneeling down beside the bed. I start hyperventilating, not stopping my escape plan, despite Sadie putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place. 

“J-ju-just leave it i-i-in,” I plead, panic clear in my voice. The more I try to escape, the more pain shoots around my limbs, and my vision darkens again. 

“And take care of rot, rather than stitches? You’ll thank me later,” Grimshaw admonishes, opening the whiskey. “Abigail, be ready with that hot water and compress. Sadie, give her this and  _ hold her down _ .”

Sadie, clearly having some experience in this, moves to sit on the bed, cradling my head between her legs as she uses them to hold my arms and torso in place. She grabs the leather belt she procured and holds it up to my mouth. 

“Wait, wait!” I plead one last time, eyeing the smoking pliers held up to the bullet wound, still bleeding freely and soaking the cot. “Give me the whiskey.”

Abigail snatches it from the ground, having used it to clean the needle, and holds it up to my mouth. I gulp it freely, not feeling much of the burn over the pain radiating through my body. The cuts in my mouth sting, but I don’t much care at this point. 

I down about a third of it, giving my first night in camp a run for its money. I nod that I’m done and give Miss Grimshaw a determined look. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

She nods back, then gives Sadie a look. Sadie holds the leather up to my mouth, and I take a deep breath before clamping down firmly. 

Miss Grimshaw slowly inserts the pliers into the tender flesh of my gunshot wound, and my head explodes in white hot pain. 

I’m screaming through the leather, certain that I’ll bite clean through it. Sadie increases the pressure of her legs around me as I attempt to thrash, my body working separate from my mind to get away. Abigail rushes to steady my legs so Grimshaw doesn’t slip. 

The pliers dig around excruciatingly slow, trying to find the bullet. Miss Grimshaw screws up her face in concentration, unable to find the metal lodged in my leg. She clamps down on something, and a new level of pain explodes as I let out a broken scream. 

“Missed it, that was a muscle or something,” she says almost nonchalantly, and I see red. 

“ _ You rancid fucking bitch! _ ” I try to scream around the leather, but thankfully I’m muffled by the belt. “When we’re through here, I’ll dig around in  _ your fucking leg _ for a while! After I shoot you first!”

Miss Grimshaw doesn’t even glance at me. “That’s right, Daisy, get it all out. Abigail, I can’t see what I’m doing, give me that whiskey.” 

_ Shit!  _ I start to reason whether it’s really worth it to make it out of this. Succumbing to the pain seems like a good idea at this point, because when Grimshaw pours that whiskey into my wound, my eyes roll again and I see a mighty appealing white light. 

Until Sadie strikes me again. 

“You fucking bitch,” I moan again around the leather, and Sadie leans right down into my face.

_ “If I don’t get die then neither do you.” _

A pang of sadness pulls me from the brink as I stare at her hardened face. I don’t know much about Sadie, besides that her and Karen are the only women who share guard duty. People in camp are quiet about her and around her. 

I now have a goal, and a reason to live. 

I spit the leather out. “Give me more whiskey, please.”

Grimshaw nods at Abigail, who trades out the bloody cloth she was holding for the whiskey, and moves to once again tilt it into my mouth. I gulp several times before nodding to continue. 

I feel rather floaty as Grimshaw once again fails to find the bullet, but does manage to make blood spurt out of my wound, staining the front of her dress.  _ That can’t be good _ , I think sardonically, the mixture of blood loss and getting drunk making me loopy. 

Miss Grimshaw curses and withdraws the pliers again, motioning for Abigail to compress my leg while she wipes her head. “Can’t find the bastard. I’ll give it one more go before I’ll need to widen the wound.”

I laugh despite myself, tears streaming through my swollen eyes.  _ Might as well happen, at this point _ . Apparently the laugh was alarming, because Miss Grimshaw nods at Sadie, who reaches down to set my broken nose with her hands. I feel more than hear a shark  _ crack _ , and I cry out at the sensation. 

Just as Grimshaw’s about to go in again, she looks up to see something that makes her start to shout, “Well it’s about goddamn time you showed up! Mr. Smith, I need you over here! Tilly, stitch up Herr Strauss so he stops griping. Hosea, we need to move  _ soon _ , so start packing the things we’ve missed.”

Tilly and Hosea spring into action, while Charles steps into my vision, glancing around Sadie’s hands bandaging my nose to look at my face. His is sweating and a little bruised.  _ They must have gotten into a bit of trouble in Valentine. _

He confirms this by saying, “the Pinkertons ambushed us almost as soon as we walked into Smithfields. When we made an excuse that we weren’t involved in whatever was about to happen, they let our horses loose and made us leave town on foot.”

Sadie looks up at him. “Your horses?”

“Just found them up in the bison plain. Made it most of the way without us,” he remarks, assessing my leg. “Have you gotten it out?”

“I can’t seem to find it. Could you give it a try?” Miss Grimshaw hands him the pliers as he rinses his hands in the hot water. He sets the pliers on the cot before placing his warm hands on my thigh, gently pressing around the wound. If I could blush, then I would, but I don’t seem to have enough blood. Or wherewithal.

He does this for a minute or so before seeming satisfied enough to stop. “It went in at an angle, probably someone on a roof got her. It’s very deep, but more down here,” he says, pointing down a couple of inches away from the opening. 

“Should we cut it out?” Miss Grimshaw suggests, and Charles shakes his head. 

“She’s already lost too much blood. We can’t risk that getting worse, or that will be what kills her. It’s still manageable, but it won’t feel too good.”

“Where the fuck is that reverend when we need him!” Miss Grimshaw curses, but she can’t afford to leave my side to find the man.  _ Probably referring to the morphine he may be able to provide.  _ She moves to the other side of the cot and takes one of my hands in hers, nodding up at Charles to go ahead. 

He uses one hand to feel for the bullet while the other twists the pliers into my leg, probing around for an excruciating minute where I can do nothing but moan in pain. This happens for another minute or so before Charles successfully pulls the cylindrical bullet out, covered in my blood. 

All five of us sigh in relief at the sight. “Well done, Mr. Smith,” Grimshaw praises, and pushes hair back from my hot, swollen face. “I owe ya. Now get your shit packed, Dutch’ll likely need you.”

He nods, giving my other hand a squeeze before running over to Dutch, who is unceremoniously throwing Molly’s things onto the back of the carriage while she protests from the side.

Miss Grimshaw takes over again to sew the first few stitches, showing Abigail how. “Ain’t too hard, just can’t be squidgy about poking through flesh,” she remarks, leaving the needle for Abigail so she can go order the other gang members around. Abigail sews the last stitch before sighing and standing. 

“Help me move her so we can get the bed,” she asks Javier, who is walking by carrying a trunk of things. He sets it down to pick me up under the shoulders and knees, placing me inside a wagon next to Jack, surrounded by all the odds and ends of the camp. 

“You’ll be fine, Daisy, we’ll get you cleaned up when we’re somewhere safe,” he reassures in his accented voice, and I smile in thanks at him before he steps off the wagon. 

“Hiya, Jackie,” I slur a bit, alcohol finally fully taking over. His nose scrunches a bit, likely at the smell of my breath, but still looks to Abigail outside the wagon. 

“Jack, if she faints or starts bleeding again, yell for us, okay?” she asks and he nods, watching his mother walk off to wash and help pack. 

“What happened?” He inquires, watching Sadie climb up to bind my leg tightly in bandages. 

“Got shot by bad men.” I decide not to lie to him, and pray that Abigail is of the same philosophy as I am as far as honesty goes. 

“Can you finish that story you were telling me a while ago?” he asks, which makes Sadie bark out a laugh as she ties of the bandage. 

“I’m going to be honest, Jackie boy, I’m a little drunk,” I slur the last words, making him giggle a bit, “and in a fair bit of pain. Dunno if I’d be able to remember any kind of story or words or order.”

He looks a little crestfallen, clearly stressed that we are moving away from Horseshoe Overlook so suddenly. 

“How ‘bout this? ‘F you can find my things in this wagon, I got something  _ you  _ can read to  _ me. _ How’s that sound?”

He nods excitedly and scrambles over me, knee knocking into my leg and making me see stars. I’m able to hold my tongue from swearing, but only just. 

He returns with a thin volume that I was able to pick up in Valentine not long ago. “The J-ju-junj-” 

“Hard ‘g’. Sound it out,” I slur, and Sadie leaves us to gather the soiled cot. 

“The Jung-Jungle Book, by ... “ 

“Better let me take that part. Rudyard Kipling,” I say, leaning my head back against the wall of the wagon. He repeats it quietly, opening the cover. 

“Pictures!” he exclaims, and I smile at him, closing my eyes. “Miss Daisy, don’t sleep.”

His tone is so serious that I laugh a bit, ribs aching. “I’m not, sir. I promise. Can you read to me?”

He makes a small excited noise that warms my heart, and carefully opens to the first page. It’s slow going, and he often needs to stop for me to correct the foreign names, but I oblige him. It’s helping him calm down just as much as it helps me to stay awake. 

He gets halfway through the first story when a familiar face pokes his way into the wagon, dodging around the piled items to get a look at my face. 

“Hi, Jack. How’s our patient doing?” Arthur drawls, face calm but eyes betraying some emotion that I’m too tired to interpret. 

“She’s fine, I’m reading her a book,” he says, smiling at the enforcer. 

“Well, good. Glad she’s still awake. That’s one hell of a horse you got there, Miss McCormack,” he says, eyes glancing over my face to assess the damage there. What with the bullet wound slowly bleeding me to death, we hadn’t had time to spare on fixing any other part of me besides bandaging my newly set nose. Luckily, my knees have scabbed over and my nose is done bleeding, but my eye is now completely swollen shut. 

I take a minute to try and figure out what euphemism Arthur could possibly be using about a horse, until I realize he’s talking about my  _ actual  _ horse. I laugh despite myself, and Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“He sure is. Got a name for him now,” I slur before my head drops from exhaustion. I feel the wagon shake as Arthur steps his foot onto it before I lift my head again and open my eyes. 

“Don’t you sleep now, miss, or I’ll do something drastic,” he threatens, stepping back to the ground. 

“Mmm, don’t let me stop you,” I drawl, smiling dreamily at him. He shakes his head, chuckling a little. 

“Well, anyways, whad’you name the horse?” he asks, scratching his neck. 

“Ajax. I like your tradition of picking a name appropriate to temper, as well as the classics.” 

He smiles again, looking up at me. “That’s a fine name, miss.”

I smile back, leaning my head against the wall, admiring the view. He’s splattered in someone else’s blood, blue eyes bright and sparkling against the grime and gore. I’ve never seen anyone wear anything better. “Mhm, you’re a fine name.”

His face screws up in more confusion, but his eyes are lit with mirth.  _ Shit, I need to be careful. Drunk and in pain is no time to embarrass myself. _

“Arthur, m’boy, we need to get a move on! Come on over here!” Dutch calls from outside, and Arthur tips his hat at me before walking off, his swaying hips distracting me again. 

“Can we keep going, Miss Daisy?” Jack’s sweet voice breaks my silent reverie, and I turn my smile to him. 

“Of course, wouldn’t want to miss it.”

* * *

Dutch ends up sending Arthur and Charles ahead, to scout for a new campsite. We finally get moving and bid farewell to Horseshoe Overlook. 

This place has meant a lot for me. It gave me hope that I could possibly have a better life, even if a little more rough. It helped me find a new family in this mismatched, tight knit group. It allowed me to dream of better things, and to start to maybe,  _ possibly _ see some self-worth within me. 

If I could spare the moisture, I’m sure I would be crying. Tilly holds me close, regardless, before tipping a canteen up to my mouth. 

Jack eventually got tired, trying to push through and continue reading anyway. Abigail closed the book she found open on his lap and leaned his head onto her to sleep, amongst the teetering piles of our lives stacked within the wagon. I don’t dare to sleep, with a new found vigor for life taking over, and sleeping could mean slipping into oblivion. 

We ride all evening, night and into the morning, and the temperature rises with the sun, warming the air much faster than I’m used to.  _ We must be headed somewhere south.  _

The ride gives me time to think about what just happened, and how useless I feel. Not just for the firefight in Valentine, but also the fact that I was of no help in breaking down camp. I have felt many ways about myself throughout my life, but  _ useless _ was never one of them. I was weak, and I vow to myself never to let myself feel weak again. A plan begins to formulate in my tired, pain-frazzled brain. 

We rumble to a stop next to a massive lake, and already the water looks very appealing in the humid morning. 

“Arthur, Charles, not bad at all! We’ll make this place a home!” Dutch calls from the front of another wagon, his thud from jumping off audible from here. 

Jack, Abigail, and Tilly climb out the back of the wagon, with Hosea and Mary-Beth hopping off the front. I sit up to follow, but am pushed back by Tilly. 

“Don’t you move, now. Let us get this stuff off the wagon before we come get you.”

I nod, not needing to be told twice in my tired mind. The alcohol has long since worn off, and a general pain has settled over my body, concentrated on my leg. The outside of my thigh is entirely mottled with bruises, and the dried blood is graphic, to say the least. There’s a small patch of red blood that has seeped to the surface of the bandage, but it seems to have otherwise stopped bleeding. 

I can see Dutch, John, and Arthur walking around camp, setting up camp and carrying barrels and trunks to their proper places. Even Strauss is unpacking his cart with one hand, the other arm secured in a sling. 

_ How was I able to catch all the bullets, and they got out clean? _

I push the resentment aside to notice that the wagon is cleared, and Charles steps up next to me. 

“How’s that feeling, Daisy?” he asks, pointing down at my leg. I should care that my leg is exposed to my upper thigh now that I’m better, but I’m too tired to find it within myself to worry. 

“Better than last night, thanks to you. Just sore,” I reply, giving him a small smile. 

“Well, we’ll get you a steak for your eye, should take down the swelling. And I’ll keep an eye out for some yarrow and ginseng, that’ll help with pain and infection.” I nod in affirmation and silent thanks, and he stoops to pick me up. I gasp at the pressure he puts on my left leg, and he adjusts a bit to hold below my knee before gently stepping off the wagon. 

He leads me over to what looks like Miss Grimshaw’s tent already set up, bloody cot already waiting for me. “She says this cot is yours, now. Miss Grimshaw will want a new one, even being as good with blood as she is.”

I immediately feel bad, which he shushes with a look. “She’s been asking Dutch for as long as I’ve been here. This is a great excuse for her.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

He chuckles and lowers me onto the cot. “The girls’ll take you to wash soon, so just sleep until then. You’re out of danger, I think.”

I thank him, and he nods before walking away. But I remember something. 

“Charles?” 

He turns, question written in his expression. I continue. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Okay…” he looks unsure, and glances around the camp for something. 

I sigh, closing my unswollen eye in embarrassment. “Your help in marksmanship helped me survive in Valentine, and I’m in your debt for that.”

He sits on the edge of the cot, careful not to jostle the bed too much. “Everyone in our business needs to know how to shoot, Daisy.”

“I know, and I realize the importance of that now.” My knives were of almost no use at Valentine. I managed to get one man, yes, but the chaos was intense, and there’s no way anyone, even me, could hit a man on a roof with a throwing knife with all the bullets whizzing around. “But I need to know how to do something else.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I need to know how to fight.”

Charles is shocked, brow scrunched in confusion, so I barrel through. “I was taken captive with no effort on their part, and wasn’t able to put up much of a fight once they had me. Then…” I cringe thinking of the fight with Harrison before Arthur killed him, and Charles frowns, glancing over my damaged face. “Well, then I wasn’t of any use in anything after. I need to be strong enough to break free, and I need to know how to fight back.”

“Daisy, I don’t think this is a good idea. Didn’t they teach you any of that in New York?”

“With what I did, they didn’t feel the need. Besides,” I add with a dark mirth,  **“** sometimes the people the Pinkertons assigned to me liked beating me before having me for the night. No use teaching defense for that.”

Charles shares absolutely none of my mirth, giving me a sad, almost pitying look. Which flashed to anger when I shrugged in reply. 

“They did their duty a disservice, then. Putting a woman to work without knowing how to protect herself? Bastards,” he growls, surprising me a little. “Even Abigail was taught the basics.”

“Well, regardless, it didn’t happen then, but I feel like I need it now.”

“You do. But I don’t know why you’re asking me.” There’s an implication there that asks why I wasn’t asking Arthur, or maybe even Dutch or Hosea. I smile at him. 

“I mean this in the nicest way, Charles, but I don’t think you’d hold your punches back.” He recoils in shock, so I rush to add, “As in you’d respect me enough to train me in earnest, not treating me like something broken.”

He reacts with a harsh laugh, and gestures to me. I wince. “Okay, but you would be doing this to prevent something like this from happening again. And I’m not suggesting we start  _ now _ , but when I’m better healed.”

Charles thinks on my words for a while, and I start to doubt and get embarrassed for asking him in the first place before he says, “I’ll think on it and let you know. There’s folk in this camp who would skin me in my sleep if we returned with you having unexplained bruises, likely some who’d do more than that. If you want to do this, and I want to as well,  _ you’ll  _ need to explain to them what’s going on.”

I nod in agreement, slightly shocked that this may actually work. He pats my shoulder before standing to help with the rest of the camp setup. 

I feel a wave of exhaustion hit me as the others bustle around the camp, making their lean-tos and setting up fire pits. Despite the heat and light of the rising sun, I feel my eyes close on their own, and finally give in to sleep after one of the longest nights of my life. 

* * *

“Daisy?  _ Daisy? _ ”

I crack my eyes open only to notice that the sun is gone. I lift my head to see light outside, but a tent has been put up around me.  _ Wow, I slept like the dead _ . 

Which is maybe why Arthur, Dutch, and Mary-Beth look so concerned right now. 

“Mornin’,” I murmur, and I see them all relax a bit, “did I miss something?”

Dutch chuckles as Arthur grumbles, “yeah, likely your chance to shuffle of this mortal coil, so to speak.”

He sounds grumpy but his eyes tell me he’s relieved. “Nah, you all have to live with me for a while yet.”

“That’ll be our pleasure, Miss Daisy,” Dutch says as the other nod and smile. 

“Oh, here,” Arthur says suddenly, holding a large steak out to me. I grab it and place it over my swollen face, careful not to get any juices in my eye. 

“Thanks,” I say smiling around the massive steak, and Arthur and Mary-Beth giggle at the sight. 

I start to sit up for my company, but Dutch puts a firm hand on my shoulder, keeping me down. “Now, Mary-Beth here is going to replace your bandages, but we’re here to talk a while. May we?”

He gestures at the two chairs that they likely brought in themselves, and I nod. It’s very strange to be laying flat on my back while they’re sitting, but Dutch gives me a look when I try to sit up again. Mary-Beth starts changing the bandage on my thigh and I blush, despite the men’s eyes being trained on my face. 

“You’ll likely need more sleep, Daisy, as I’m surprised you’re not in too much pain to talk to us anyway, so we’ll be brief. We just want to know what went down at Smithfield’s back in Valentine.”

My heart drops in my chest, and I wince as Mary-Beth pulls the bandage from the stitches, dry blood yanking at the tender skin.  _ Do they believe I had something to do with the ambush? Did they come to accuse me of possibly colluding with the Pinkertons? Have I given them some reason to doubt me? _

Arthur sees the panic in my face and shakes his head. “Daisy, we ain’t accusin’ ya of nothin’, you’ve got the faith of the camp.”

“We would simply like to know if any information was given about how they knew. About us, our location, how Cornwall knew it was us, apart from a single loose end on the mountain.” Dutch’s implication was that there was a man on the mountain who got away. Who should not have gotten away. 

“They didn’t say much about the train that Cornwall didn’t say himself, only that they were hired guns,” I reason, Dutch looking frustrated, “and we could have inferred that.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Dutch remarks. He remains silent, an invitation for me to continue. 

“Most of what they talked about was how quickly they found out my lie,” a pang of guilt rushes through me at the words, “because I wasn’t careful enough.”

“Nah, that ain’t it. You an’ them was trained by the same folks, they’re gonna see the pony’s tricks, no matter how good ya are at performin’ them,” Arthur’s tone conveys kindness, but also an inability to put up with my lack of confidence in myself. I’m not used to that, so I don’t know how to feel about it yet. 

“Regardless, that’s not the worst part,” I murmur, almost at a whisper. “He said after he checked Chadwick’s farm for me, Milton and Ross were actually able to identify me.”

Dutch and Arthur’s heads swing at each other, sharing an urgent look while I continue. “Ross only recognized me after some thought - some twisted thought, apparently, judging by his modus operandi - and they put the pieces together after that.”

“This ain’t good, Dutch,” Arthur whispers with his normally husky voice betraying some panic. “Pinkertons know she’s one of us, knew where we was, this ain’t goin’ to end well-”

“There’s no telling who walked away from Valentine knowing the truth, or if they’ll make anything of the situation-”

“They likely sent someone out,” I start, drawing their eyes towards me again, “that’s standard procedure when something unusual or unexpected happens. The Agency is very thorough in its record keeping, and-”

“Daisy, slow down,” Dutch murmurs, picking up on anxiety I hadn’t noticed in myself. I take a breath and lean back down into the cot. 

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to ya,” Arthur continues, sitting up straight on the stool, “we won’t let ‘em get to ya.”

My heart warms at his words, and at the thought that the gang would try to protect me.  _ Try, but will they succeed? _

They see my face darken at the thought and give me confused looks. “Dwight Williams will be sending out for me, at the very least.”

“Dwight? He one of them fellers that worked with you in New York?” Arthur questions, his face full of memories from the stories of my past. 

“Yeah, he’s the one,” I say, looking to the canvas next to the bed to avoid their gazes. Their pity. 

“Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come upon it,” Dutch declares, pushing off his hands on his knees to stand. Arthur follows suit. “Worry not, we’ll keep you safe should they choose to make the wrong decision. Get some rest, and holler when you need a new steak.”

I thank them as they leave, tent flaps swinging closed when they’re gone. Mary-Beth finishes tying off the bandage, clearly having taken her sweet time in order to get the story, and stands, brushing the front of her skirt off. 

She turns, but hesitates before walking out. “This Dwight, is he someone to be worried about?”

_ Do I reassure her, or tell the truth?  _ I realize that telling Dutch and Arthur is one thing: they’ll take the threat and worry about it later, because they’ve dealt with evil before and believe that it’s predictable. 

However, telling the women of the camp might help. We’ve seen the specific evil that a motivated man can have towards a woman, and know at least how to recognize that threat, if not how to deal with it. Giving this information to the women in the camp can do nothing but keep us on our toes, to unite us under a single front: to protect each other. 

I shoot Mary-Beth a serious look before saying, “Yes. More than almost anyone, as far as I’m concerned.”

She thinks for a moment before giving me a nod of understanding, then pushes out of the flaps as well, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And steak on my face. 

Before I sleep again, I smell the distinct scent of horse, closer than it should be. Close enough to make me curious. 

_ I bet the tent walls can be pulled up a bit. How else will I keep up with camp gossip while I’m out of commission? _

I gently turn onto my right side, making sure to not jostle my leg too much and holding the meat to my face. When I get close enough to the edge of the bed, I reach down to pull the tent wall up a foot or two.

Black fur is visible just outside my tent. Rippling muscles underneath, with hooves covered in about a foot of black shaggy hair tucked underneath. 

_ Ajax _ . 

The name fits incredibly well with his temperament. Fierce, protective, destructive. Fully wild until brought to order by the kings of Greece.  _ Does that make me Odysseus, or Agamemnon? _

I reach down to stroke the fur down his back, and he huffs, leaning into my touch. 

“Good boy, Ajax,” I say before closing my eyes, and I swear I can hear a small sound of approval before sleep takes me once again.


End file.
